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THE 


PROSE  WORKS 


IN  TWO    VOLUMES 

VOL.  I. 
OUTRE-MER.  —  DRIFT-WOOD 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 

e  Pres 
1885 


Copyright,  1845,  1857,  1866,  and  1872, 
Bv  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Copyright,  1885, 
BY  ERNEST  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Camlrrieige,  Mass.  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


OUTRE-MER. 

PACK 

THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY 7 

THE  PILGRIM  OF  OUTRE-MER      ....  9 

THE  NORMAN  DILIGENCE 13 

THE  GOLDEN  LION  INN        .        .        .        .        .  21 

MARTIN  FRANC  AND  THE  MONK  OF  ST.  ANTHONY  27 

THE  VILLAGE  OF  AUTEUIL 48 

JACQUELINE 61 

THE  SEXAGENARIAN      ....  .71 

PERE  LA  CHAISE 78 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE          ....  92 

THE  TROUVERES 108 

THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE 124 

COQ-A-L'ANE 135 

THE  NOTARY  OF  P^RIGUEUX        .        .        .        .  147 

THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN 160 

SPAIN 174 

A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER 182 

ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS  .....  196 
THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO       .        .        .        .221 

THE  DEVOTIONAL  POETRY  OF  SPAIN    .        .        .  237 


iv  Contents 

THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY        .....  267 

THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY    .....  297 

ROME  IN  MIDSUMMER 311 

THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  RICCTA        ....  334 

NOTE-BOOK 353 

THE  PILGRIM'S  SALUTATION 360 

COLOPHON         .  , 363 


OUTRE-MER 


A  PILGRIMAGE   BEYOND   THE   SEA 


I  have  passed  manye  landes  and  manye  yles  and  contrees,  and  cherched 
manye  fulle  straunge  places,  and  have  ben  in  manye  a  fulle  gode  honour 
able  companye.  Now  I  am  comen  home  to  reste.  And  thus  recordynga 
the  tyme  passed,  I  have  fulfilled  these  thynges  and  putte  hem  wryten  in 
this  boke,  as  it  woulde  come  into  my  niynde. 

•Sir  John  Maundevillt 


THE   EPISTLE   DEDICATORY 


The  cheerful  breeze  sets  fair  ;  we  fill  our  sail, 
And  scud  before  it.     When  the  critic  starts, 
And  angrily  unties  his  bags  of  wind, 
Then  we  lay  to,  and  let  the  blast  go  by. 

HURDIS. 


WORTHY  AND  GENTLE  READER, — 

I    DEDICATE  this  little  book  to  thee  with 
many  fears  and  misgivings  of  heart.     Be 
ing  a  stranger  to  thee,  and  having  never  admin 
istered  to  thy  wants  nor  to  thy  pleasures,  I  can 
ask  nothing  at  thy  hands  saving  the  common 
courtesies  of  life.     Perchance,  too,  what  I  have 
written  will  be  little  to  thy  taste  ;  —  for  it  is 
little  in  accordance  with  the  stirring  spirit  of 
^     the  present  age.     If  so,  I  crave  thy  forbearance 
,       for  having  thought  that  even  the  busiest  mind 
might  not  be  a  stranger  to  those  moments  of 
repose,  when  the  clock  of  time  clicks  drowsily 
behind  the  door,  and  trifles  become  the  amuse- 
ment  of  the  wise  and  great. 

Besides,  what  perils  await  the  adventurous 
author  who  launches  forth  into  the  uncertain 
current  of  public  favor  in  so  frail  a  bark  as 


8  The  Epistle  Dedicatory 

this  !  The  very  rocking  of  the  tide  may  over 
set  him  ;  or  peradventure  some  freebooting 
critic,  prowling  about  the  great  ocean  of  letters, 
may  descry  his  strange  colors,  hail  him  through 
a  gray  goose-quill,  and  perhaps  sink  him  with 
out  more  ado.  Indeed,  the  success  of  an  un 
known  author  is  as  uncertain  as  the  wind. 
"  When  a  book  is  first  to  appear  in  the  world," 
says  a  celebrated  French  writer,  "  one  knows 
not  whom  to  consult  to  learn  its  destiny.  The 
stars  preside  not  over  its  nativity.  Their  in 
fluences  have  no  operation  on  it ;  and  the  most 
confident  astrologers  dare  not  foretell  the  di 
verse  risks  of  fortune  it  must  run." 

It  is  from  such  considerations,  worthy  reader, 
that  I  would  fain  bespeak  thy  friendly  offices 
at  the  outset.  But,  in  asking  these,  I  would 
not  forestall  thy  good  opinion  too  far,  lest  in 
the  sequel  I  should  disappoint  thy  kind  wishes. 
I  ask  only  a  welcome  and  God-speed  ;  hoping, 
that,  when  thou  hast  read  these  pages,  thou 
wilt  say  to  me,  in  the  words  of  Nick  Bottom, 
the  weaver,  "  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  ac 
quaintance,  good  Master  Cobweb." 

Very  sincerely  thine, 

THE  AUTHOR. 
BSUNSWICK,  Maine,  1833. 


THE  PILGRIM   OF   OUTRE-MER 


I  am  a  Palmer,  as  ye  se, 

Whiche  of  my  lyfe  muche  part  have  spent 

In  many  a  fayre  and  farre  cuntrie, 

As  pilgrims  do  of  good  intent. 

THE  FOUR  Ps. 


"  T  YSTENYTH,  ye  godely  gentylmen,  and 
-1 — '  all  that  ben  hereyn  !  "  I  am  a  pilgrim  be 
nighted  on  my  way,  and  crave  a  shelter  till  the 
storm  is  over,  and  a  seat  by  the  fireside  in  this 
honorable  company.  As  a  stranger  I  claim  this 
courtesy  at  your  hands ;  and  will  repay  your 
hospitable  welcome  with  tales  of  the  countries 
I  have  passed  through  in  my  pilgrimage. 

This  is  a  custom  of  the  olden  time.  In  the 
days  of  chivalry  and  romance,  every  baron 
bold,  perched  aloof  in  his  feudal  castle,  wel 
comed  the  stranger  to  his  halls,  and  listened 
with  delight  to  the  pilgrim's  tale  and  the  song 
of  the  troubadour.  Both  pilgrim  and  trouba 
dour  had  their  tales  of  wonder  from  a  distant 
land,  embellished  with  the  magic  of  Oriental 
-exaggeration.  Their  salutation  was,  — 


io        The  Pilgrim  of  Outre-Mer 

"  Lordyng  lystnith  to  my  tale, 
That  is  meryer  than  the  nightingale." 

The  soft  luxuriance  of  the  Eastern  clime 
bloomed  in  the  song  of  the  bard  ;  and  the  wild 
and  romantic  tales  of  regions  so  far  off  as  to  be 
regarded  as  almost  a  fairy  land  were  well  suited 
to  the  childish  credulity  of  an  age  when  what 
is  now  called  the  Old  World  was  in  its  child 
hood.  Those  times  have  passed  away.  The 
world  has  grown  wiser  and  less  credulous ;  and 
the  tales  which  then  delighted  delight  no 
longer.  But  man  has  not  changed  his  nature. 
He  still  retains  the  same  curiosity,  the  same 
love  of  novelty,  the  same  fondness  for  romance 
and  tales  by  the  chimney-corner,  and  the  same 
desire  of  wearing  out  the  rainy  day  and  the 
long  winter  evening  with  the  illusions  of  fancy 
and  the  fairy  sketches  of  the  poet's  imagina* 
tion.  It  is  as  true  now  as  ever,  that 

"Off  talys,  and  tryfulles,  many  man  tellys  ; 
Sume  byn  trew,  and  sume  byn  ellis  ; 
A  man  may  dryfe  forthe  the  day  that  long  tyme  dwellis 
Wyth  harpyng,  and  pipyng,  and  other  mery  spellis, 
Wyth  gle,  and  wyth  game." 

The  Pays  d'Outre-Mer,  or  the  Land  beyond 
the  Sea,  is  a  name  by  which  the  pilgrims  and 
crusaders  of  old  usually  designated  the  Holy 


The  Pilgrim  of  Outre-Mer        1 1 

Land.  I,  too,  in  a  certain  sense,  have  been  a 
pilgrim  of  Outre-Mer ;  for  to  my  youthful  im 
agination  the  Old  World  was  a  kind  of  Holy 
Land,  lying  afar  off  beyond  the  blue  horizon 
of  the  ocean ;  and  when  its  shores  first  rose 
upon  my  sight,  looming  through  the  hazy  at 
mosphere  of  the  sea,  my  heart  swelled  with  the 
deep  emotions  of  the  pilgrim,  when  he  sees 
afar  the  spire  which  rises  above  the  shrine  of 
his  devotion. 

In  this  my  pilgrimage,  "  I  have  passed  many 
lands  and  countries,  and  searched  many  full 
strange  places."  I  have  traversed  France  from 
Normandy  to  Navarre  ;  smoked  my  pipe  in  a 
Flemish  inn  ;  floated  through  Holland  in  a 
Trekschuit ;  trimmed  my  midnight  lamp  in  a 
German  university  ;  wandered  and  mused  amid 
the  classic  scenes  of  Italy  ;  and  listened  to  the 
gay  guitar  and  merry  castanet  on  the  borders 
of  the  blue  Guadalquivir.  The  recollection  of 
many  of  the  scenes  I  have  passed  through  is 
still  fresh  in  my  mind  ;  while  the  memory  of 
others  is  fast  fading  away,  or  is  blotted  out  for 
ever.  But  now  I  will  stay  the  too  busy  hand 
of  time,  and  call  back  the  shadowy  past.  Per 
chance  the  old  and  the  wise  may  accuse  me  of 
frivolity  ;  but  I  see  in  this  fair  company  the 


12         The  Pilgrim  of  Outre-Mer 

bright  eye  and  listening  ear  of  youth,  —  an  age 
less  rigid  in  its  censure  and  more  willing  to  be 
pleased.  "  To  gentlewomen  and  their  loves  is 
consecrated  all  the  wooing  language,  allusions 
to  love-passions,  and  sweet  embracements 
feigned  by  the  Muse  'mongst  hills  and  rivers  ; 
whatsoever  tastes  of  description,  battel,  story, 
abstruse  antiquity,  and  law  of  the  kingdome, 
to  the  more  severe  critic.  To  the  one  be  con 
tenting  enjoyments  of  their  auspicious  desires  ; 
to  the  other,  a  happy  attendance  of  their 
chosen  Muses."  * 

And  now,  fair  dames  and  courteous  gentle 
men,  give  me  attentive  audience :  — 

•"  Lordyng  lystnith  to  my  tale, 

That  is  meryer  than  the  nightingale." 

*  Selden's  Prefatory  Discourse  to  the  Notes  in  Drayton's 
Poly-Olbion. 


THE  NORMAN   DILIGENCE 


The  French  guides,  otherwise  called  the  postilians,  have  one  m»st 
diabolical!  custome  in  their  travelling  upon  the  wayes.  Diabolicall  it  may 
be  well  called  ;  for,  whensoever  their  horses  doe  a  little  anger  them,  they 
will  say,  in  their  fury,  Allans,  diable,  — that  is,  Go,  thou  divel.  This  I 
know  by  mine  own  experience.  • 

CORYAT'S  CRUDITIES. 


IT  was  early  in  the  "  leafy  month  of  June  " 
that  I  travelled  through  the  beautiful  prov 
ince  of  Normandy.  As  France  was  the  first 
foreign  country  I  visited,  everything  wore  an 
air  of  freshness  and  novelty,  which  pleased  my 
eye,  and  kept  my  fancy  constantly  busy.  Life 
was  like  a  dream.  It  was  a  luxury  to  breathe 
again  the  free  air,  after  having  been  so  long 
cooped  up  at  sea  ;  and,  like  a  long-imprisoned 
bird  let  loose  from  its  cage,  I  revelled  in  the 
freshness  and  sunshine  of  the  morning  land 
scape. 

On  every  side,  valley  and  hill  were  covered 
with  a  carpet  of  soft  velvet  green.  The  birds 
were  singing  merrily  in  the  trees,  and  the  land 
scape  wore  that  look  of  gayety  so  well  described 
in  the  quaint  language  of  an  old  romance,  mak- 


14  The  Norman  Diligence 

ing  the  "  sad,  pensive,  and  aching  heart  to  re 
joice,  and  to  throw  off  mourning  and  sadness." 
Here  and  there  a  cluster  of  chestnut-trees 
shaded  a  thatch-roofed  cottage,  and  little 
patches  of  vineyard  were  scattered  on  the 
slope  of  the  hills,  mingling  their  delicate  green 
with  the  deep  hues  of  the  early  summer  grain. 
The  whole  landscape  had  a  fresh,  breezy  look. 
It  was  not  hedged,  in  from  the  highways,  but 
lay  open  to  the  eye  of  the  traveller,  and  seemed 
to  welcome  him  with  open  arms.  I  felt  less  a 
stranger  in  the  land  ;  and  as  my  eye  traced  the 
dusty  road  winding  along  through  a  rich  culti 
vated  country,  skirted  on  either  side  with 
blossoming  fruit-trees,  and  occasionally  caught 
glimpses  of  a  little  farm-house  resting  in  a 
green  hollow  and  lapped  in  the  bosom  of  plenty, 
I  felt  that  I  was  in  a  prosperous,  hospitable, 
and  happy  land. 

I  had  taken  my  seat  on  top  of  the  diligence, 
in  order  to  have  a  better  view  of  the  country. 
It  was  one  of  those  ponderous  vehicles  which 
totter  slowly  along  the  paved  roads  of  France, 
laboring  beneath  a  mountain  of  trunks  and 
bales  of  all  descriptions  ;  and,  like  the  Trojan 
horse,  bearing  a  groaning  multitude  within  it. 
It  was  a  curious  and  cumbersome  machine,  re- 


The  Norman  Diligence  15 

sembling  the  bodies  of  three  coaches  placed 
upon  one  carriage,  with  a  cabriolet  on  top  for 
outside  passengers.  On  the  panels  of  each 
door  were  painted  the  fleurs-de-lis  of  France, 
and  upon  the  side  of  the  coach,  emblazoned  in 
golden  characters,  "  Exploitation  Generale  des 
Messageries  Royales  des  Diligences  pour  le 
Havre,  Rouen,  et  Parish 

It  would  be  useless  to  describe  the  motley 
groups  that  filled  the  four  quarters  of  this  little 
world.  There  was  the  dusty  tradesman,  with 
green  coat  and  cotton  umbrella  ;  the  sallow 
invalid,  in  skullcap  and  cloth  shoes  ;  the  priest 
in  his  cassock  ;  the  peasant  in  his  frock  ;  and 
a  whole  family  of  squalling  children.  My  fel 
low-travellers  on  top  were  a  gay  subaltern,  with 
fierce  mustache,  and  a  nut-brown  village  beauty 
of  sweet  sixteen.  The  subaltern  wore  a  mil 
itary  undress,  and  a  little  blue  cloth  cap,  in  the 
shape  of  a  cow-bell,  trimmed  smartly  with  sil 
ver  lace,  and  cocked  on  one  side  of  his  head. 
The  brunette  was  decked  out  with  a  staid 
white  Norman  cap,  nicely  starched  and  plaited, 
and  nearly  three  feet  high,  a  rosary  and  cross 
about  her  neck,  a  linsey-woolsey  gown,  and 
wooden  shoes. 

The  personage  who  seemed  to  rule  this  little 


1 6  The  Norman  Diligence 

world  with  absolute  sway  was  a  short,  pursy 
man,  with  a  busy,  self-satisfied  air,  and  the 
sonorous  title  of  Monsieur  le  Conducteur.  As 
insignia  of  office,  he  wore  a  little  round  fur  cap 
and  fur-trimmed  jacket  ;  and  carried  in  his 
hand  a  small  leathern  portfolio,  containing  his 
way-bill.  He  sat  with  us  on  top  of  the  dili 
gence,  and  with  comic  gravity  issued  his  man 
dates  to  the  postilion  below,  like  some  petty 
monarch  speaking  from  his  throne.  In  every 
dingy  village  we  thundered  through,  he  had  a 
thousand  commissions  to  execute  and  to  re 
ceive  ;  a  package  to  throw  out  on  this  side, 
and  another  to  take  in  on  that ;  a  whisper  for 
the  landlady  at  the  inn  ;  a  love-letter  and  a 
kiss  for  her  daughter  ;  and  a  wink  or  a  snap  of 
his  fingers  for  the  chambermaid  at  the  window. 
Then  there  were  so  many  questions  to  be  asked 
and  answered,  while  changing  horses  !  Every 
body  had  a  word  to  say.  It  was  Monsieur  le 
Conducteur!  here;  Monsieur  le  Conducteiir  ! 
there.  He  was  in  complete  bustle ;  till  at  length 
crying,  En  route  !  he  ascended  the  dizzy  height, 
and  we  lumbered  away  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

But  what  most  attracted  my  attention  was 
the  grotesque  appearance  of  the  postilion  and 
the  horses,  He  was  a  comical-looking  little 


The  Norman  Diligence  17 

fellow,  already  past  the  heyday  of  life,  with  a 
thin,  sharp  countenance,  to  which  the  smoke 
of  tobacco  and  the  fumes  of  wine  had  given 
the  dusty  look  of  parchment.  He  was  equipped 
in  a  short  jacket  of  purple  velvet,  set  off  with 
a  red  collar,  and  adorned  with  silken  cord. 
Tight  breeches  of  bright  yellow  leather  arrayed 
his  pipe-stem  legs,  which  were  swallowed  up 
in  a  huge  pair  of  wooden  boots,  iron-fastened, 
and  armed  with  long,  rattling  spurs.  His 
shirt-collar  was  of  vast  dimensions,  and  be 
tween  it  and  the  broad  brim  of  his  high,  bell- 
crowned,  varnished  hat,  projected  an  eel-skin 
queue,  with  a  little  tuft  of  frizzled  hair,  like  a 
powder-puff,  at  the  end,  bobbing  up  and  down 
with  the  motion  of  the  rider,  and  scattering  a 
white  cloud  around  him. 

The  horses  which  drew  the  diligence  were 
harnessed  to  it  with  ropes  and  leather  thongs, 
in  the  most  uncouth  manner  imaginable.  They 
were  five  in  number,  black,  white,  and  gray,  — 
as  various  in  size  as  in  color.  Their  tails  were 
braided  and  tied  up  with  wisps  of  straw  ;  and 
when  the  postilion  mounted  and  cracked  his 
heavy  whip,  off  they  started  :  one  pulling  this 
way,  another  that,  —  one  on  the  gallop,  another 
trotting,  and  the  rest  dragging  along  at  a  scram- 


1 8  The  Norman  Diligence 

bling  pace,  between  a  trot  and  a  walk.  No 
sooner  did  the  vehicle  get  comfortably  in  mo 
tion,  than  the  postilion,  throwing  the  reins 
upon  his  horse's  neck,  and  drawing  a  flint  and 
steel  from  one  pocket  and  a  short-stemmed 
pipe  from  another,  leisurely  struck  fire,  and 
began  to  smoke.  Ever  and  anon  some  part  of 
the  rope-harness  would  give  way ;  Monsieur  le. 
Conducteur  from  on  high  would  thunder  forth 
an  oath  or  two  ;  a  head  would  be  popped  out 
at  every  window  ;  half  a  dozen  voices  exclaim 
at  once,  "  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  and  the  pos 
tilion,  apostrophizing  the  diable  as  usual,  would 
thrust  his  long  whip  into  the  leg  of  his  boot, 
leisurely  dismount,  and,  drawing  a  handful  of 
packthread  from  his  pocket,  quietly  set  himself 
to  mend  matters  in  the  best  way  possible. 

In  this  manner  we  toiled  slowly  along  the 
dusty  highway.  Occasionally  the  scene  was 
enlivened  by  a  group  of  peasants,  driving  before 
them  a  little  ass,  laden  with  vegetables  for  a 
neighboring  market.  Then  we  would  pass  a 
solitary  shepherd,  sitting  by  the  road-side,  with 
a  shaggy  dog  at  his  feet,  guarding  his  flock, 
and  making  his  scanty  meal  on  the  contents  of 
his  wallet ;  or  perchance  a  little  peasant  girl, 
in  wooden  shoes,  leading  a  cow  by  a  cord  at- 


The  Norman  Diligence  19 

tached  to  her  horns,  to  browse  along  the  side 
of  the  ditch.  Then  we  would  all  alight  to  as 
cend  some  formidable  hill  on  foot,  and  be  es 
corted  up  by  a  clamorous  group  of  sturdy 
mendicants,  —  annoyed  by  the  ceaseless  impor 
tunity  of  worthless  beggary,  or  moved  to  pity 
by  the  palsied  limbs  of  the  aged,  and  the  sight 
less  eyeballs  of  the  blind. 

Occasionally,  too,  the  postilion  drew  up  in 
front  of  a  dingy  little  cabaret,  completely  over 
shadowed  by  wide-spreading  trees.  A  lusty 
grape-vine  clambered  up  beside  the  door ;  and 
a  pine-bough  was  thrust  out  from  a  hole  in  the 
wall,  by  way  of  tavern-bush.  Upon  the  front 
of  the  house  was  generally  inscribed  in  large 
black  letters,  "  Ici  ON  DONNE  A  BOIRE  ET  A 

MANGER  ;  ON  LOGE  A  PIED  ET  A  CHEVAL  "  J  a 

sign  which  may  be  thus  paraphrased,  —  "  Good 
entertainment  for  man  and  beast "  ;  but  which 
was  once  translated  by  a  foreigner,  "  Here  they 
give  to  eat  and  drink ;  they  lodge  on  foot  and 
on  horseback ! " 

Thus  one  object  of  curiosity  succeeded  an 
other  ;  hill,  valley,  stream,  and  woodland  flitted 
by  me  like  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  magic  lan 
tern,  and  one  train  of  thought  gave  place  to 
another  ;  till  at  length,  in  the  after  part  of  the 


2O  The  Norman  Diligence 

day,  we  entered  the  broad  and  shady  avenue 
of  fine  old  trees  which  leads  to  the  western 
gate  of  Rouen,  and  a  few  moments  afterward 
were  lost  in  the  crowds  and  confusion  of  ita 
narrow  streets. 


THE  GOLDEN   LION   INN 


Monsieur  Vinot.  Je  veux  absolument  un  Lion  1'Or ;  parce  qu'on  dit, 
Ou  allez-vous?  Au  Lion  d'Or  !  —  D'ou  venez-vous?  Du  Lion  d'Or  !  — 
Ou  irons-nous  ?  Au  Lion  d'Or  ! —  Ou  y  a-t-il  de  bon  vin  ?  Au  Lion  d'Or  ! 

LA  ROSE  ROUGE. 


THIS  answer  of  Monsieur  Vinot  must  have 
been  running  in  my  head  as  the  diligence 
stopped  at  the  Messagerie  ;  for  when  the  por 
ter,  who  took  my  luggage,  said  :  — 

"  Ou  allez-vous,  Monsieur  ?  " 

I  answered,  without  reflection  (for,  be  it  said 
with  all  the  veracity  of  a  traveller,  at  that  time 
I  did  not  know  there  was  a  Golden  Lion  in  the 
city),  — 

"Au  Lion  d'Or." 

And  so  to  the  Lion  d'Or  we  went. 

The  hostess  of  the  Golden  Lion  received  me 
with  a  courtesy  and  a  smile,  rang  the  house- 
bell  for  a  servant,  and  told  him  to  take  the 
gentleman's  things  to  number  thirty-five.  I 
followed  him  up  stairs.  One,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  six,  seven  !  Seven  stories  high,  by  Our 
Lady !  —  I  counted  them  every  one  ;  and  when 


22  The  Golden  Lion  Inn 

I  went  down  to  remonstrate,  I  counted  them 
again ;  so  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  a 
mistake.  When  I  asked  for  a  lower  room,  the 
hostess  told  me  the  house  was  full ;  and  when 
I  spoke  of  going  to  another  hotel,  she  said  she 
should  be  so  very  sorry,  so  dfeolee,  to  have 
Monsieur  leave  her,  that  I  marched  up  again  to 
number  thirty-five. 

After  finding  all  the  fault  I  could  with  the 
chamber,  I  ended,  as  is  generally  the  case  with 
most  men  on  such  occasions,  by  being  very  well 
pleased  with  it.  The  only  thing  I  could  possi 
bly  complain  of  was  my  being  lodged  in  the 
seventh  story,  and  in  the  immediate  neighbor 
hood  of  a  gentleman  who  was  learning  to  play 
the  French  horn.  But  to  remunerate  me  for 
these  disadvantages,  my  window  looked  down 
into  a  market-place,  and  gave  me  a  distant  view 
of  the  towers  of  the  cathedral,  and  the  ruins 
of  the  church  and  abbey  of  St.  Ouen. 

When  I  had  fully  prepared  myself  for  a  ram 
ble  through  the  city,  it  was  already  sunset ; 
and  after  the  heat  and  dust  of  the  day,  the 
freshness  of  the  long  evening  twilight  was  de 
lightful.  When  I  enter  a  new  city,  I  cannot 
rest  till  I  have  satisfied  the  first  cravings  of 
curiosity  by  rambling  through  its  streets.  Nor 


The  Golden  Lion  Inn  23 

can  I  endure  a  cicerone,  with  his  eternal  "  This 
way,  Sir."  I  never  desire  to  be  led  directly  to 
an  object  worthy  of  a  traveller's  notice,  but 
prefer  a  thousand  times  to  find  my  own  way, 
and  come  upon  it  by  surprise.  This  was  par 
ticularly  the  case  at  Rouen.  It  was  the  first 
European  city  of  importance  that  I  visited. 
There  was  an  air  of  antiquity  about  the  whole 
city  that  breathed  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  and 
so  strong  and  delightful  was  the  impression 
that  it  made  upon  my  youthful  imagination, 
that  nothing  which  I  afterward  saw  could 
either  equal  or  efface  it.  I  have  since  passed 
through  that  city,  but  I  did  not  stop.  I  was 
unwilling  to  destroy  an  impression  which,  even 
at  this  distant  day,  is  as  fresh  upon  my  mind 
as  if  it  were  of  yesterday. 

With  these  delightful  feelings  I  rambled  on 
from  street  to  street,  till  at  length,  after  thread 
ing  a  narrow  alley,  I  unexpectedly  came  out  in 
front  of  the  magnificent  cathedral.  If  it  had 
suddenly  risen  from  the  earth,  the  effect  could 
not  have  been  more  powerful  and  instantane 
ous.  It  completely  overwhelmed  my  imagina 
tion  ;  and  I  stood  for  a  long  time  motionless, 
gazing  entranced  upon  the  stupendous  edifice. 
I  had  before  seen  no  specimen  of  Gothic  archi- 


24  The  Golden  Lion  Inn 

tecture ;  and  the  massive  towers  before  me,  the 
lofty  windows  of  stained  glass,  the  low  portal, 
with  its  receding  arches  and  rude  statues,  all 
produced  upon  my  untravelled  mind  an  im 
pression  of  awful  sublimity.  When  I  entered 
the  church,  the  impression  was  still  more  deep 
and  solemn.  It  was  the  hour  of  vespers.  The 
religious  twilight  of  the  place,  the  lamps  that 
burned  on  the  distant  altar,  the  kneeling  crowd, 
the  tinkling  bell,  and  the  chant  of  the  evening 
service  that  rolled  along  the  vaulted  roof  in 
broken  and  repeated  echoes,  filled  me  with 
new  and  intense  emotions.  When  I  gazed  on 
the  stupendous  architecture  of  the  church,  the 
huge  columns  that  the  eye  followed  up  till 
they  were  lost  in  the  gathering  dusk  of  the 
arches  above,  the  long  and  shadowy  aisles,  the 
statues  of  saints  and  martyrs  that  stood  in 
every  recess,  the  figures  of  armed  knights  upon 
the  tombs,  the  uncertain  light  that  stole  through 
the  painted  windows  of  each  little  chapel,  and 
the  form  of  the  cowled  and  solitary  monk, 
kneeling  at  the  shrine  of  his  favorite  saint,  or 
passing  between  the  lofty  columns  of  the 
church,  —  all  I  had  read  of,  but  had  not  seen, 
—  I  was  transported  back  to  the  Dark  Ages, 
and  felt  as  I  can  never  feel  again. 


The  Golden  Lion  Inn  25 

On  the  following  day,  I  visited  the  remains 
of  an  old  palace,  built  by  Edward  the  Third, 
now  occupied  as  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  the 
ruins  of  the  church  and  monastery  of  Saint 
Antoine.  I  saw  the  hole  in  the  tower  where 
the  ponderous  bell  of  the  abbey  fell  through  ; 
and  took  a  peep  at  the  curious  illuminated 
manuscript  of  Daniel  d'Aubonne  in  the  pub 
lic  library.  The  remainder  of  the  morning 
was  spent  in  visiting  the  ruins  of  the  ancient 
abbey  of  St.  Ouen,  which  is  now  transformed 
into  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  in  strolling  through 
its  beautiful  gardens,  dreaming  of  the  present 
and  the  past,  and  given  up  to  "  a  melancholy 
of  my  own." 

At  the  Table  <?Hote  of  the  Golden  Lion,  I 
fell  into  conversation  with  an  elderly  gentle 
man,  who  proved  to  be  a  great  antiquarian, 
and  thoroughly  read  in  all  the  forgotten  lore 
of  the  city.  As  our  tastes  were  somewhat  sim 
ilar,  we  were  soon  upon  very  friendly  terms  ; 
and  after  dinner  we  strolled  out  to  visit  some 
remarkable  localities,  and  took  the  gloria  to 
gether  at  the  Chevalier  Bayard. 

When  we  returned  to  the  Golden  Lion,  he 
entertained  me  with  many  curious  stories  of 
the  spots  we  had  been  visiting.  Among  others, 


26  The  Golden  Lion  Inn 

he  related  the  following  singular  adventure  of 
a  monk  of  the  abbey  of  St.  Antoine,  which 
amused  me  so  much  that  I  cannot  refrain  from 
presenting  it  to  my  readers.  I  will  not,  how 
ever,  vouch  for  the  truth  of  the  story  ;  for  that 
the  antiquarian  himself  would  not  do.  He 
said  he  found  it  in  an  ancient  manuscript  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  in  the  archives  of  the  public 
library ;  and  I  give  it  as  it  was  told  me,  with 
out  note  or  comment. 


MARTIN   FRANC   AND   THE   MONK 
OF   SAINT   ANTHONY* 

Seignor,  oiez  une  merveille, 
C'onques  n'oi'stes  sa  pareille, 
Que  je  vos  vueil  dire  et  conter; 
Or  metez  cuer  a  1'escouter. 

FABLIAU  DU  BOUCHIER  D'ABBBVIUX 

Lystyn  Lordyngs  to  my  tale, 

And  ye  shall  here  of  one  story, 
Is  better  than  any  wyne  or  ale, 

That  ever  was  made  in  this  cuntry. 

ANCIENT  METRICAL  ROMANCE. 

IN  times  of  old,  there  lived  in  the  city  of 
Rouen  a  tradesman  named  Martin  Franc, 
who,  by  a  series  of  misfortunes,  had  been  re 
duced  from  opulence  to  poverty.     But  poverty, 
which  generally  makes  men  humble  and  labori- 

*  The  outlines  of  the  following  tale  were  taken  from  a  Nor 
man  Fabliau  of  the  thirteenth  century,  entitled  Le  Segretain 
Maine.  To  judge  by  the  numerous  imitations  of  this  story 
which  still  exist  in  old  Norman  poetry,  it  seems  to  have  been 
a  prodigious  favorite  of  its  day,  and  to  have  passed  through 
as  many  hands  as  did  the  body  of  Friar  Gui.  It  probably  had 
its  origin  in  "The  Story  of  the  Little  Hunchback,"  a  tale  of 
the  Arabian  Nights  ;  and  in  modern  times  has  been  imitated 
in  the  poetic  tale  of  "The  Knight  and  the  Friar,"  by  George 
Colman. 


28  Martin  Franc  and 

ous,  only  served  to  make  him  proud  and  lazy  ; 
and  in  proportion  as  he  grew  poorer  and  poorer, 
he  grew  also  prouder  and  lazier.  He  contrived, 
however,  to  live  along  from  day  to  day,  by  now 
and  then  pawning  a  silken  robe  of  his  wife, 
or  selling  a  silver  spoon,  or  some  other  trifle, 
saved  from  the  wreck  of  his  better  fortunes  ; 
and  passed  his  time  pleasantly  enough  in  loi 
tering  about  the  market-place,  and  walking  up 
and  down  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street. 

The  fair  Marguerite,  his  wife,  was  celebrated 
through  the  whole  city  for  her  beauty,  her  wit, 
and  her  virtue.  She  was  a  brunette,  with  the 
blackest  eye,  the  whitest  teeth,  and  the  ripest 
nut-brown  cheek  in  all  Normandy  ;  her  figure 
was  tall  and  stately,  her  hands  and  feet  most 
delicately  moulded,  and  her  swimming  gait 
like  the  motion  of  a  swan.  In  happier -days 
she  had  been  the  delight  of  the  richest  trades 
men  in  the  city,  and  the  envy  of  the  fairest 
dames. 

The  friends  of  Martin  Franc,  like  the  friends 
of  many  a  ruined  man  before  and  since,  de 
serted  him  in  the  day  of  adversity.  Of  all 
that  had  eaten  his  dinners,  and  drunk  his  wine, 
and  flattered  his  wife,  none  sought  the  narrow 
alley  and  humble  dwelling  of  the  broken  trades- 


The  Monk  of  St.  Anthony        29 

man  save  one,  and  that  one  was  Friar  Gui,  the 
sacristan  of  the  abbey  of  St.  Anthony.  He 
was  a  little,  jolly,  red-faced  friar,  with  a  leer  in 
his  eye,  and  rather  a  doubtful  reputation  ;  but 
as  he  was  a  kind  of  travelling  gazette,  and  al 
ways  brought  the  latest  news  and  gossip  of  the 
city,  and  besides  was  the  only  person  that  con 
descended  to  visit  the  house  of  Martin  Franc, 
—  in  fine,  for  the  want  of  a  better,  he  was  con 
sidered  in  the  light  of  a  friend. 

In  these  constant  assiduities,  Friar  Gui  had 
his  secret  motives,  of  which  the  single  heart 
of  Martin  Franc  was  entirely  unsuspicious. 
The  keener  eye  of  his  wife,  however,  soon  dis 
covered  two  faces  under  the  hood  ;  but  she 
persevered  in  misconstruing  the  friar's  inten 
tions,  and  in  dexterously  turning  aside  any  ex 
pressions  of  gallantry  that  fell  from  his  lips. 
In  this  way  Friar  Gui  was  for  a  long  time  kept 
at  bay  ;  and  Martin  Franc  preserved  in  the 
day  of  poverty  and  distress  that  consolation 
of  all  this  world's  afflictions,  —  a  friend.  But, 
finally,  things  came  to  such  a  pass,  that  the 
honest  tradesman  opened  his  eyes,  and  won 
dered  he  had  been  asleep  so  long.  Whereupon 
he  was  irreverent  enough  to  thrust  Friar  Gui 
into  the  street  by  the  shoulders. 


30  Martin  Franc  and 

Meanwhile  the  times  grew  worse  and  worse. 
One  family  relic  followed  another, — the  last 
silken  robe  was  pawned,  the  last  silver  spoon 
sold ;  until  at  length  poor  Martin  Franc  was 
forced  to  "  drag  the  devil  by  the  tail "  ;  in 
other  words,  beggary  stared  him  full  in  the 
face.  But  the  fair  Marguerite  did  not  even 
then  despair.  In  those  days  a  belief  in  the 
immediate  guardianship  of  the  saints  was  much 
more  strong  and  prevalent  than  in  these  lewd 
and  degenerate  times  ;  and  as  there  seemed  no 
great  probability  of  improving  their  condition 
by  any  lucky  change  which  could  be  brought 
about  by  mere  human  agency,  she  determined 
to  try  what  could  be  done  by  intercession  with 
the  patron  saint  of  her  husband.  Accordingly 
she  repaired  one  evening  to  the  abbey  of  St. 
Anthony,  to  place  a  votive  candle  and  offer 
her  prayer  at  the  altar,  which  stood  in  the  little 
chapel  dedicated  to  St.  Martin. 

It  was  already  sunset  when  she  reached  the 
church,  and  the  evening  service  of  the  Virgin 
had  commenced.  A  cloud  of  incense  floated 
before  the  altar  of  the  Madonna,  and  the  organ 
rolled  its  deep  melody  along  the  dim  arches  of 
the  church.  Marguerite  mingled  with  the 
kneeling  crowd,  and  repeated  the  responses  in 


The  Monk  of  St.  Anthony        31 

Latin,  with  as  much  devotion  as  the  most 
learned  clerk  of  the  convent.  When  the  ser 
vice  was  over,  she  repaired  to  the  chapel  of  St. 
Martin,  and,  lighting  her  votive  taper  at  the 
silver  lamp  which  burned  before  his  altar,  knelt 
down  in  a  retired  part  of  the  chapel,  and,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  besought  the  saint  for  aid 
and  protection.  While  she  was  thus  engaged, 
the  church  became  gradually  deserted,  till  she 
was  left,  as  she  thought,  alone.  But  in  this 
she  was  mistaken  ;  for,  when  she  arose  to  de 
part,  the  portly  figure  of  Friar  Gui  was  stand 
ing  close  at  her  elbow ! 

"  Good  evening,  fair  Marguerite,"  said  he. 
"  St.  Martin  has  heard  your  prayer,  and  sent 
me  to  relieve  your  poverty." 

"Then,"  replied  she,  "  the  good  saint  is  not 
very  fastidious  in  the  choice  of  his  messen 
gers." 

•  "Nay,  goodwife,"  answered  the  friar,  not  at 
all  abashed  by  this  ungracious  reply,  "if  the 
tidings  are  good,  what  matters  it  who  the  mes 
senger  may  be  ?  And  how  does  Martin  Franc 
these  days  ? " 

"He  is  well,"  replied  Marguerite ;  "  and 
were  he  present,  I  doubt  not  would  thank  you 
heartily  for  the  interest  you  still  take  in  him 
and  his  poor  wife." 


32  Martin  Franc  and 

"  He  has  done  me  wrong,"  continued  the 
friar.  "  But  it  is  our  duty  to  forgive  our  ene 
mies  ;  and  so  let  the  past  be  forgotten.  I 
know  that  he  is  in  want.  Here,  take  this  to 
him,  and  tell  him  I  am  still  his  friend." 

So  saying,  he  drew  a  small  purse  from  the 
sleeve  of  his  habit,  and  proffered  it  to  his  com 
panion.  I  know  not  whether  it  were  a  sug 
gestion  of  St.  Martin,  but  true  it  is  that  the 
fair  wife  of  Martin  Franc  seemed  to  lend  a 
more  willing  ear  to  the  earnest  whispers  of  the 
iriar.  At  length  she  said,  — 

"  Put  up  your  purse  ;  to-day  I  can  neither 
deliver  your  gift  nor  your  message.  Martin 
Franc  has  gone  from  home." 

'•Then  keep  it  for  yourself." 

'  May/'   replied   Marguerite,   casting  down 
her  eyes ;  "  I  can  take  no  bribes  here  in  the 
church,  and   in   the  very  chapel   of  my  hus 
band's  patron  saint.     You  shall  bring  it  to  me. 
at  my  house,  if  you  will." 

The  friar  put  up  the  purse,  and  the  conver 
sation  which  followed  was  in  a  low  and  indis 
tinct  undertone,  audible  only  to  the  ears  for 
which  it  was  intended.  At  length  the  inter 
view  ceased  ;  and  —  O  woman  !  —  the  last 
words  that  the  virtuous  Marguerite  uttered,  as 
she  glided  from  the  church,  were,  — 


The  Monk  of  St.  Anthony         33 

"  To-night ;  —  when  the  abbey-clock  strikes 
twelve  ;  —  remember  ! " 

It  would  be  useless  to  relate  how  impatiently 
the  friar  counted  the  hours  and  the  quarters 
as  they  chimed  from  the  ancient  tower  of  the 
abbey,  while  he  paced  to  and  fro  along  the 
gloomy  cloister.  At  length  the  appointed 
hour  approached  ;  and  just  before  the  con 
vent-bell  sent  forth  its  summons  to  call  the 
friars  of  St.  Anthony  to  their  midnight  de 
votions,  a  figure,  with  a  cowl,  stole  out  of  a 
postern-gate,  and  passing  silently  along  the 
deserted  streets,  soon  turned  into  the  littl^ 
alley  which  led  to  the  dwelling  of  Martin 
Franc.  It  was  none  other  than  Friar  Gui. 
He  rapped  softly  at  the  tradesman's  door,  and 
casting  a  look  up  and  down  the  street,  as  if  to 
assure  himself  that  his  motions  were  unob 
served,  slipped  into  the  house. 

"  Has  Martin  Franc  returned  ? "  inquired  he 
in  a  whisper. 

"  No,"  answered  the  sweet  voice  of  his  wife ; 
"  he  will  not  be  back  to-night." 

"  Then  all  good  angels  befriend  us ! "  con 
tinued  the  monk,  endeavoring  to  take  her 
hand. 

"  Not  so,  good  monk,"  said  she,  disengaging 
3*  e 


34  Martin  Franc  and 

herself.  "You  forget  the  conditions  of  our 
meeting." 

The  friar  paused  a  moment  ;  and  then, 
drawing  a  heavy  leathern  purse  from  his  gir 
dle,  he  threw  it  upon  the  table  ;  at  the  same 
moment  a  footstep  was  heard  behind  him,  and 
a  heavy  blow  from  a  club  threw  him  prostrate 
upon  the  floor.  It  came  from  the  strong  arm 
of  Martin  Franc  himself! 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  his  absence 
was  feigned.  His  wife  had  invented  the  story 
to  decoy  the  monk,  and  thereby  to  keep  her 
husband  from  beggary,  and  to  relieve  herself, 
once  for  all,  from  the  importunities  of  a  false 
friend.  At  first  Martin  Franc  would  not  listen 
to  the  proposition  ;  but  at  length  he  yielded 
to  the  urgent  entreaties  of  his  wife  ;  and  the 
plan  finally  agreed  upon  was,  that  Friar  Gui, 
after  leaving  his  purse  behind  him,  should  be 
sent  back  to  the  convent  with  a  severer  disci 
pline  than  his  shoulders  had  ever  received 
from  any  penitence  of  his  own. 

The  affair,  however,  took  a  more  serious 
turn  than  was  intended  ;  for,  when  they  tried 
to  raise  the  friar  from  the  ground,  —  he  was 
dead.  The  blow  aimed  at  his  shoulders  fell 
upon  his  shaven  crown  ;  and,  in  the  excite- 


The  Monk  of  St.  Anthony         35 

ment  of  the  moment,  Martin  Franc  had  dealt 
a  heavier  stroke  than  he  intended.  Amid  the 
grief  and  consternation  which  followed  this 
discovery,  the  quick  imagination  of  his  wife 
suggested  an  expedient  of  safety.  A  bunch 
of  keys  at  the  friar's  girdle  caught  her  eye. 
Hastily  unfastening  the  ring,  she  gave  the 
keys  to  her  husband,  exclaiming,  — 

"  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake,  be  quick !  One 
of  these  keys  doubtless  unlocks  the  gate  of  the 
convent-garden.  Carry  the  body  thither,  and 
leave  it  among  the  trees  !  " 

Martin  Franc  threw  the  dead  body  of  the 
monk  across  his  shoulders,  and  with  a  heavy 
heart  took  the  way  to  the  abbey.  It  was  a 
clear,  starry  night ;  and  though  the  moon  had 
not  yet  risen,  her  light  was  in  the  sky,  and 
came  reflected  down  in  a  soft  twilight  upon 
earth.  Not  a  sound  was  heard  through  all  the 
long  and  solitary  streets,  save  at  intervals  the 
distant  crowing  of  a  cock,  or  the  melancholy 
hoot  of  an  owl  from  the  lofty  tower  of  the 
abbey.  The  silence  weighed  like  an  accusing 
spirit  upon  the  guilty  conscience  of  Martin 
Franc.  He  started  at  the  sound  of  his  own 
breathing,  as  he  panted  under  the  heavy  bur 
den  of  the  monk's  body ;  and  if,  perchance,  a 


36  Martin  Franc  and 

bat  flitted  near  him  on  drowsy  wings,  he 
paused,  and  his  heart  beat  audibly  with  terror, 
At  length  he  reached  the  garden-wall  of  the 
abbey,  opened  the  postern-gate  with  the  key, 
and  bearing  the  monk  into  the  garden,  seated 
him  upon  a  stone  bench  by  the  edge  of  the 
fountain,  with  his  head  resting  against  a  col 
umn,  upon  which  was  sculptured  an  image  of 
the  Madonna.  He  then  replaced  the  bunch 
of  keys  at  the  monk's  girdle,  and  returned 
home  with  hasty  steps. 

When  the  prior  of  the  convent,  to  whom  the 
repeated  delinquencies  of  Friar  Gui  were  but 
too  well  known,  observed  that  he  was  again 
absent  from  his  post  at  midnight  prayers,  he 
waxed  exceedingly  angry  ;  and  no  sooner  were 
the  duties  of  the  chapel  finished,  than  he  sent 
a  monk  in  pursuit  of  the  truant  sacristan,  sum 
moning  him  to  appear  immediately  at  his  cell. 
By  chance  it  happened  that  the  monk  chosen 
for  this  duty  was  an  enemy  of  Friar  Gui ;  and 
very  shrewdly  supposing  that  the  sacristan  had 
stolen  out  of  the  garden-gate  on  some  mid 
night  adventure,  he  took  that  direction  in  pur 
suit.  The  moon  was  just  climbing  the  con 
vent-wall,  and  threw  its  silvery  light  through 
the  trees  of  the  garden,  and  on  the  sparkling 


The  Monk  of  St.  Anthony         37 

waters  of  the  fountain,  that  fell  with  a  soft 
lulling  sound  into  the  deep  basin  below.  As 
the  monk  passed  on  his  way,  he  stopped  to 
quench  his  thirst  with  a  draught  of  the  cool 
water,  and  was  turning  to  depart,  when  his 
eye  caught  the  motionless  form  of  the  sacris 
tan,  sitting  erect  in  the  shadow  of  the  stone 
column. 

"  How  is  this,  Friar  Gui  ? "  quoth  the  monk. 
"Is  this  a  place  to  be  sleeping  at  midnight, 
when  the  brotherhood  are  all  at  their  prayers  ? " 

Friar  Gui  made  no  answer. 

"  Up,  up  !  thou  eternal  sleeper,  and  do  pen 
ance  for  thy  negligence.  The  prior  calls  for 
thee  at  his  cell !  "  continued  the  monk,  grow 
ing  angry,  and  shaking  the  sacristan  by  the 
shoulder. 

But  still  no  answer. 

"  Then,  by  Saint  Anthony,  I  '11  wake  thee  ! " 

And  saying  this,  he  dealt  the  sacristan  a 
heavy  box  on  the  ear.  The  body  bent  slowly 
forward  from  its  erect  position,  and,  giving  a 
headlong  plunge,  sank  with  a  heavy  splash  in 
to  the  basin  of  the  fountain.  The  monk  waited 
a  few  moments  in  expectation  of  seeing  Friar 
Gui  rise  dripping  from  his  cold  bath  ;  but  he 
waited  in  vain  ;  for  he  lay  motionless  at  the 


38  Martin  Franc  and 

bottom  of  the  basin,  —  his  eyes  open,  and  his 
ghastly  face  distorted  by  the  ripples  of  the 
water.  With  a  beating  heart  the  monk  stooped 
down,  and,  grasping  the  skirt  of  the  sacristan's 
habit,  at  length  succeeded  in  drawing  him 
from  the  water.  All  efforts,  however,  to  re 
suscitate  him  were  unavailing.  The  monk 
was  filled  with  terror,  not  doubting  that  the 
friar  had  died  untimely  by  his  hand  ;  and  as 
the  animosity  between  them  was  no  secret  in 
the  convent,  he  feared  that,  when  the  deed 
was  known,  he  should  be  accused  of  murder. 
He  therefore  looked  round  for  an  expedient 
to  relieve  himself  from  the  dead  body  ;  and 
the  well-known  character  of  the  sacristan  soon 
suggested  one.  He  determined  to  carry  the 
body  to  the  house  of  the  most  noted  beauty  of 
Rouen,  and  leave  it  on  the  door-step  ;  so  that 
all  suspicion  of  the  murder  might  fall  upon  the 
shoulders  of  some  jealous  husband.  The 
beauty  of  Martin  Franc's  wife  had  penetrat 
ed  even  the  thick  walls  of  the  convent,  and 
there  was  not  a  friar  in  the  whole  abbey  of 
Saint  Anthony  who  had  not  done  penance  for 
his  truant  imagination.  Accordingly,  the  dead 
body  of  Friar  Gui  was  laid  upon  the  monk's 
brawny  shoulders,  carried  back  to  the  house 


The  Monk  of  St.  Anthony         39 

of  Martin  Franc,  and  placed  in  an  erect  posi 
tion  against  the  door.  The  monk  knocked 
loud  and  long  ;  and  then,  gliding  through  a 
by-lane,  stole  back  to  the  convent. 

A  troubled  conscience  would  not  surfer 
Martin  Franc  and  his  wife  to  close  their  eyes ; 
but  they  lay  awake  lamenting  the  doleful 
events  of  the  night.  The  knock  at  the  door 
sounded  like  a  death-knell  in  their  ears.  It 
still  continued  at  intervals,  rap  —  rap  —  rap! 
—  with  a  dull,  low  sound,  as  if  something 
heavy  were  swinging  against  the  panel  ;  for 
the  wind  had  risen  during  the  night,  and  every 
angry  gust  that  swept  down  the  alley  swung 
the  arms  of  the  lifeless  sacristan  against  the 
door.  At  length  Martin  Franc  mustered 
courage  enough  to  dress  himself  and  go  down, 
while  his  wife  followed  him  with  a  lamp  in  her 
hand  :  but  no  sooner  had  he  lifted  the  latch, 
than  the  ponderous  body  of  Friar  Gui  fell 
stark  and  heavy  into  his  arms. 

"  Jesu  Maria  ! "  exclaimed  Marguerite,  cross 
ing  herself ;  "  here  is  the  monk  again  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  dripping  wet,  as  if  he  had  just 
been  dragged  out  of  the  river  !  " 

"  O,  we  are  betrayed  !  "  exclaimed  Margue 
rite  in  agony. 


4O  Martin  Franc  and 

"  Then  the  Devil  himself  has  betrayed  us," 
replied  Martin  Franc,  disengaging  himself 
from  the  embrace  of  the  sacristan  ;  "  for  I  met 
not  a  living  being  ;  the  whole  city  was  as  si 
lent  as  the  grave." 

"  Saint  Martin  defend  us  ! "  continued  his 
terrified  wife.  "  Here,  take  this  scapulary  to 
guard  you  from  the  Evil  One  ;  and  lose  no 
time.  You  must  throw  the  body  into  the 
river,  or  we  are  lost !  Holy  Virgin  !  How 
bright  the  moon  shines  !  " 

Saying  this,  she  threw  round  his  neck  a 
scapulary,  with  the  figure  of  a  cross  on  one 
end,  and  an  image  of  the  Virgin  on  the  other  ; 
and  Martin  Franc  again  took  the  dead  friar 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  with  fearful  misgivings 
departed  on  his  dismal  errand.  He  kept  as 
much  as  possible  in  the  shadow  of  the  houses, 
and  had  nearly  reached  the  quay,  when  sud 
denly  he  thought  he  heard  footsteps  behind 
him.  He  stopped  to  listen  ;  it  was  no  vain 
imagination  ;  they  came  along  the  pavement, 
tramp,  tramp !  and  every  step  grew  louder 
and  nearer.  Martin  Franc  tried  to  quicken 
his  pace,  —  but  in  vain :  his  knees  smote  to 
gether,  and  he  staggered  against  the  wall 
His  hand  relaxed  its  grasp,  and  the  monk  slid 


The  Monk  of  St.  Anthony        41 

from  his  back  and  stood  ghastly  and  straight 
beside  him,  supported  by  chance  against  the 
shoulder  of  his  bearer.  At  that  moment  a 
man  came  round  the  corner,  tottering  beneath 
the  weight  of  a  huge  sack.  As  his  head  was 
bent  downwards,  he  did  not  perceive  Martin 
Franc  till  he  was  close  upon  him  ;  and  when, 
on  looking  up,  he  saw  two  figures  standing 
motionless  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  he 
thought  himself  waylaid,  and,  without  waiting 
to  be  assaulted,  dropped  the  sack  from  his 
shoulders  and  ran  off  at  full  speed.  The  sack 
fell  heavily  on  the  pavement,  and  directly  at 
the  feet  of  Martin  Franc.  In  the  fall  the 
string  was  broken  ;  and  out  came  the  bloody 
head,  not  of  a  dead  monk,  as  it  first  seemed  to 
the  excited  imagination  of  Martin  Franc,  but 
of  a  dead  hog  !  When  the  terror  and  surprise 
caused  by  this  singular  event  had  a  little  sub 
sided,  an  idea  came  into  the  mind  of  Martin 
Franc,  very  similar  to  what  would  have  come 
into  the  mind  of  almost  any  person  in  similar 
circumstances.  He  took  the  hog  out  of  the 
sack,  and  putting  the  body  of  the  monk  into 
its  place,  secured  it  well  with  the  remnants  of 
the  broken  string,  and  then  hurried  homeward 
with  the  animal  upon  his  shoulders. 


42  Martin  Franc  and 

He  was  hardly  out  of  sight  when  the  man 
with  the  sack  returned,  accompanied  by  two 
others.  They  were  surprised  to  find  the  sack 
still  lying  on  the  ground,  with  no  one  near  it, 
and  began  to  jeer  the  former  bearer,  telling 
him  he  had  been  frightened  at  his  own  shadow 
on  the  wall.  Then  one  of  them  took  the  sack 
upon  his  shoulders,  without  the  least  suspicion 
of  the  change  that  had  been  made  in  its  con 
tents,  and  all  three  disappeared. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  city  of  Rouen 
was  at  that  time  infested  by  three  street  rob 
bers,  who  walked  in  darkness  like  the  pesti 
lence,  and  always  carried  the  plunder  of  their 
midnight  marauding  to  the  Tete-de-Bceuf,  a 
little  tavern  in  one  of  the  darkest  and  narrow 
est  lanes  of  the  city.  The  host  of  the  Tete- 
de-Bceuf  was  privy  to  all  their  schemes,  and 
had  an  equal  share  in  the  profits  of  their  night 
ly  excursions.  He  gave  a  helping  hand,  too, 
by  the  length  of  his  bills,  and  by  plundering 
the  pockets  of  any  chance  traveller  that  was 
luckless  enough  to  sleep  under  his  roof. 

On  the  night  of  the  disastrous  adventure 
of  Friar  Gui,  this  little  marauding  party  had 
been  prowling  about  the  city  until  a  late  hour, 
without  finding  anything  to  reward  their  la- 


The  Monk  of  St.  Anthony       43 

bors.  At  length,  however,  they  chanced  to 
spy  a  hog,  hanging  under  a  shed  in  a  butcher's 
yard,  in  readiness  for  the  next  day's  market ; 
and  as  they  were  not  very  fastidious  in  select 
ing  their  plunder,  but,  on  the  contrary,  rather 
addicted  to  taking  whatever  they  could  lay 
their  hands  on,  the  hog  was  straightway  pur 
loined,  thrust  into  a  large  sack,  and  sent  to  the 
Tete-de-Boeuf  on  the  shoulders  of  one  of  the 
party,  while  the  other  two  continued  their  noc 
turnal  excursion.  It  was  this  person  who  had 
been  so  terrified  at  the  appearance  of  Martin 
Franc  and  the  dead  monk ;  and  as  this  en 
counter  had  interrupted  any  further  operations 
of  the  party,  the  dawn  of  day  being  now  near 
at  hand  they  all  repaired  to  their  gloomy  den 
in  the  Tete-de-Boauf.  The  host  was  impa 
tiently  waiting  their  return  ;  and,  asking  what 
plunder  they  had  brought  with  them,  pro 
ceeded  without  delay  to  remove  it  from  the 
sack.  The  first  thing  that  presented  itself,  on 
untying  the  string,  was  the  monk's  hood. 

"  The  devil  take  the  devil!"  cried  the  host, 
as  he  opened  the  neck  of  the  sack;  "what's 
this  ?  Your  hog  wears  a  cowl ! " 

"  The  poor  devil  has  become  disgusted  with 
the  world,  and  turned  monk ! "  said  he  who 


44  Martin  Franc  and 

held  the  light,  a  little  surprised  at  seeing  the 
head  covered  with  a  coarse  gray  cloth. 

"  Sure  enough  he  has,"  exclaimed  another, 
starting  back  in  dismay,  as  the  shaven  crown 
and  ghastly  face  of  the  friar  appeared.  "  Holy 
St.  Benedict  be  with  us  !  It  is  a  monk  stark 
dead ! " 

"  A  dead  monk,  indeed  ! "  said  a  third,  with 
m  incredulous  shake  of  the  head  ;  "  how  could 
a.  dead  monk  get  into  this  sack  ?  No,  no ; 
Jhere  is  some  sorcery  in  this.  I  have  heard 
it  said  that  Satan  can  take  any  shape  he 
pleases  ;  and  you  may  rely  upon  it  this  is 
Satan  himself,  who  has  taken  the  shape  of  a 
monk  to  get  us  all  hanged." 

"Then  we  had  better  kill  the  devil  than 
have  the  devil  kill  us ! "  replied  the  host,  cross 
ing  himself ;  "  and  the  sooner  we  do  it  the 
better ;  for  it  is  now  daylight,  and  the  people 
will  soon  be  passing  in  the  street." 

"  So  say  I,"  rejoined  the  man  of  magic  ; 
"and  my  advice  is,  to  take  him  to  the  butcher's 
yard,  and  hang  him  up  in  the  place  where  we 
found  the  hog." 

This  proposition  so  pleased  the  others  that 
it  was  executed  without  delay.  They  carried 
the  friar  to  the  butcher's  house,  and,  passing  a 


The  Monk  of  St.  Anthony        45 

strong  cord  round  his  neck,  suspended  him 
to  a  beam  in  the  shed,  and  there  left 
him. 

When  the  night  was  at  length  past,  and  day 
light  began  to  peep  into  the  eastern  windows 
of  the  city,  the  butcher  arose,  and  prepared 
himself  for  market.  He  was  casting  up  in  his 
mind  what  the  hog  would  bring  at  his  stall, 
when,  looking  upward,  lo  !  in  its  place  he  rec 
ognized  the  dead  body  of  Friar  Gui. 

"  By  St.  Denis ! "  quoth  the  butcher,  "  I 
always  feared  that  this  friar  would  not  die 

j 

quietly  in  his  cell  ;  but  I  never  thought  I 
should  find  him  hanging  under  my  own  roof. 
This  must  not  be  ;  it  will  be  said  that  I  mur 
dered  him,  and  I  shall  pay  for  it  with  my  life. 
,[  must  contrive  some  way  to  get  rid  of  him." 

So  saying,  he  called  his  man,  and,  showing 
him  what  had  been  done,  asked  him  how  he 
should  dispose  of  the  body  so  that  he  might 
not  be  accused  of  murder.  The  man  who  was 
of  a  ready  wit,  reflected  a  moment,  and  then 
answered,  — 

"This  is  indeed  a  difficult  matter;  but  there 
is  no  evil  without  its  remedy.  We  will  place 
the  friar  on  horseback  —  " 

"  What !  a  dead  man  on  horseback  ?  —  im- 


46  Martin  Franc  and 

possible  ! "  interrupted  the  butcher.  "  Who 
ever  heard  of  a  dead  man  on  horseback  !  " 

"  Hear  me  out,  and  then  judge.  We  must 
place  the  body  on  horseback  as  well  as  we 
may,  and  bind  it  fast  with  cords ;  and  then 
set  the  horse  loose  in  the  street,  and  pursue 
him,  crying  out  that  the  monk  has  stolen  the 
horse.  Thus  all  who  meet  him  will  strike  him 
with  their  staves  as  he  passes,  and  it  will  be 
thought  that  he  came  to  his  death  in  that  way." 

Though  this  seemed  to  the  butcher  rather  a 
mad  project,  yet,  as  no  better  one  offered  itself 
at  the  moment,  and  there  was  no  time  for  re 
flection,  mad  as  the  project  was,  they  deter 
mined  to  put  it  into  execution.  Accordingly 
the  butcher's  horse  was  brought  out,  and  the, 
friar  was  bound  upon  his  back,  and  with  much 
difficulty  fixed  in  an  upright  position.  The 
butcher  then  gave  the  horse  a  blow  upon  the. 
crupper  with  his  staff,  which  set  him  into  a 
smart  gallop  down  the  street,  and  he  and  his 
man  joined  in  pursuit,  crying,  — 

"Stop  thief!  Stop  thief!  The  friar  has 
stolen  my  horse  !  " 

As  it  was  now  sunrise,  the  streets  were  full 
of  people,  —  peasants  driving  their  goods  to 
market,  and  citizens  going  to  their  daily  avo- 


The  Monk  of  St.  Anthony        47 

cations.  When  they  saw  the  friar  dashing  at 
full  speed  down  the  street,  they  joined  in  the 
cry  of  "  Stop  thief !  —  Stop  thief ! "  and  many 
who  endeavored  to  seize  the  bridle,  as  the  friar 
passed  them  at  full  speed,  were  thrown  upon 
the  pavement,  and  trampled  under  foot ;  others 
joined  in  the  halloo  and  the  pursuit ;  but  this 
only  served  to  quicken  the  gallop  of  the  fright 
ened  steed,  who  dashed  down  one  street  and 
up  another  like  the  wind,  with  two  or  three 
mounted  citizens  clattering  in  full  cry  at  his 
heels.  At  length  they  reached  the  market 
place.  The  people  scattered  right  and  left  in 
dismay  ;  and  the  steed  and  rider  dashed  on 
ward,  overthrowing  in  their  course  men  and 
women,  and  stalls,  and  piles  of  merchandise, 
and  sweeping  away  like  a  whirlwind.  Tramp 
—  tramp  —  tramp  !  they  clattered  on  ;  they 
had  distanced  all  pursuit.  They  reached  the 
quay  ;  the  wide  pavement  was  cleared  at  a 
bound,  —  one  more  wild  leap,  —  and  splash  !  — 
both  horse. and  rider  sank  into  the  rapid  cur 
rent  of  the  river,  —  swept  down  the  stream,  — 
and  were  seen  no  more  ! 


II  n'est  tel  plaisir 
Que  d'estre  4  gesir 
Parmy  les  beaux  champs, 
L'herbe  verde  choisir, 
Et  prendre  bon  temps. 

MARTIAL  D'AUVERGNE. 


THE  sultry  heat  of  summer  always  brings 
with  it,  to  the  idler  and  the  man  of  lei 
sure,  a  longing  for  the  leafy  shade  and  the 
green  luxuriance  of  the  country.  It  is  pleas 
ant  to  interchange  the  din  of  the  city,  the 
movement  of  the  crowd,  and  the  gossip  of  so 
ciety,  with  the  silence  of  the  hamlet,  the  quiet 
seclusion  of  the  grove,  and  the  gossip  of  a 
woodland  brook.  As  is  sung  in  the  old  ballad 
of  Robin  Hood, — 

"  In  somer,  when  the  shawes  be  sheyn, 

And  leves  be  large  and  long, 
Hit  is  full  mery  in  feyre  foreste, 

To  here  the  foulys  song ; 
To  se  the  dere  draw  to  the  dale 

And  leve  the  hilles  hee, 
And  shadow  hem  in  the  leves  greiK, 
Vnder.  the  grene  wode  tre." 


The   Village  of  Auteuil  49 

It  was  a  feeling  of  this  kind  that  prompted 
me,  during  my  residence  in  the  North  of 
France,  to  pass  one  of  the  summer  months  at 
Auteuil,  the  pleasantest  of  the  many  little  vil 
lages  that  lie  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
metropolis.  It  is  situated  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  a  wood  of  some  extent, 
in  whose  green  alleys  the  dusty  cit  enjoys  the 
luxury  of  an  evening  drive,  and  gentlemen 
meet  in  the  morning  to  give  each  other  satis 
faction  in  the  usual  way.  A  cross-road,  skirted 
with  green  hedge-rows,  and  overshadowed  by 
tall  poplars,  leads  you  from  the  noisy  highway 
of  St.  Cloud  and  Versailles  to  the  still  retire 
ment  of  this  suburban  hamlet.  On  either  side 
the  eye  discovers  old  chateaux  amid  the  trees, 
and  green  parks,  whose  pleasant  shades  recall 
a  thousand  images  of  La  Fontaine,  Racine, 
and  Moliere  ;  and  on  an  eminence,  overlooking 
the  windings  of  the  Seine,  and  giving  a  beauti 
ful  though  distant  view  of  the  domes  and  gar 
dens  of  Paris,  rises  the  village  of  Passy,  long 
the  residence  of  our  countrymen  Franklin  and 
Count  Rumford. 

I  took  up  my  abode  at  a  maison  de  santi '; 
not  that  I  was  a  valetudinarian,  but  because  I 
there  found  some  one  to  whom  I  could  whis- 
3  D 


50  The   Village  of  Auteuil 

per,  "  How  sweet  is  solitude  !  "  Behind  the 
house  was  a  garden  filled  with  fruit-trees  of 
various  kinds,  and  adorned  with  gravel-walks 
and  green  arbors,  furnished  with  tables  and 
rustic  seats,  for  the  repose  of  the  invalid  and 
the  sleep  of  the  indolent.  Here  the  inmates 
of  the  rural  hospital  met  on  common  ground, 
to  breathe  the  invigorating  air  of  morning, 
and  while  away  the  lazy  noon  or  vacant  even 
ing  with  tales  of  the  sick-chamber. 

The  establishment  was  kept  by  Dr.  Dentde- 
lion,  a  dried-up  little  fellow,  with  red  hair,  a 
sandy  complexion,  and  the  physiognomy  and 
gestures  of  a  monkey.  His  character  corre 
sponded  to  his  outward  lineaments ;  for  he  had 
all  a  monkey's  busy  and  curious  impertinence. 
Nevertheless,  such  as  he  was,  the  village  JEs- 
culapius  strutted  forth  the  little  great  man  of 
Auteuil.  The  peasants  looked  up  to  him  as  to 
an  oracle  ;  he  contrived  to  be  at  the  head  of 
everything,  and  laid  claim  to  the  credit  of  all 
public  improvements  in  the  village  ;  in  fine,  he 
was  a  great  man  on  a  small  scale. 

It  was  within  the  dingy  walls  of  this  little 
potentate's  imperial  palace  that  I  chose  my 
country  residence.  I  had  a  chamber  in  the 
second  story,  with  a  solitary  window,  which 


The   Village  of  Auteuil  51 

looked  upon  the  street,  and  gave  me  a  peep 
into  a  neighbor's  garden.  This  I  esteemed  a 
great  privilege  ;  for,  as  a  stranger,  I  desired 
to  see  all  that  was  passing  out  of  doors ;  and 
the  sight  of  green  trees,  though  growing  on 
another's  ground,  is  always  a  blessing.  With 
in  doors — had  I  been  disposed  to  quarrel  with 
my  household  gods  —  I  might  h?ive  taken  some 
objection  to  my  neighborhood  ;  for,  on  one 
side  of  me  was  a  consumptive  patient,  whose 
graveyard  cough  drove  me  from  my  chamber 
by  day  ;  and  on  the  other,  an  English  colonel, 
whose  incoherent  ravings,  in  the  delirium  of  a 
high  and  obstinate  fever,  often  broke  my  slum 
bers  by  night  ;  but  I  found  ample  amends  for 
these  inconveniences  in  the  society  of  those 
who  were  so  little  indisposed  as  hardly  to 
know  what  ailed  them,  and  those  who,  in 
health  themselves,  had  accompanied  a  friend 
or  relative  to  the  shades  of  the  country  in  pur 
suit  of  it.  To  these  I  am  indebted  for  much 
courtesy  ;  and  particularly  to  one  who,  if  these 
pages  should  ever  meet  her  eye,  will  not,  I 
hope,  be  unwilling  to  accept  this  slight  memo 
rial  of  a  former  friendship. 

It  was,  however,  to  the    Bois  de  Boulogne 
that    I    looked   for   my   principal    recreation 


52  The   Village  of  Auteuil 

There  I  took  my  solitary  walk,  morning  and 
evening  ;  or,  mounted  on  a  little  mouse-colored 
donkey,  paced  demurely  along  the  woodland 
pathway.  I  had  a  favorite  seat  beneath  the 
shadow  of  a  venerable  oak,  one  of  the  few 
hoary  patriarchs  of  the  wood  which  had  sur 
vived  the  bivouacs  of  the  allied  armies.  It 
stood  upon  the  brink  of  a  little  glassy  pool, 
whose  tranquil  bosom  was  the  image  of  a  quiet 
and  secluded  life,  and  stretched  its  parental 
arms  over  a  rustic  bench,  that  had  been  con 
structed  beneath  it  for  the  accommodation  of 
the  foot-traveller,  or,  perchance,  some  idle 
dreamer  like  myself.  It  seemed  to  look  round 
with  a  lordly  air  upon  its  old  hereditary  do 
main,  whose  stillness  was  no  longer  broken  by 
the  tap  of  the  martial  drum,  nor  the  discordant 
clang  of  arms  ;  and,  as  the  breeze  whispered 
among  its  branches,  it  seemed  to  be  holding 
friendly  colloquies  with  a  few  of  its  venerable 
contemporaries,  who  stooped  from  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  pool,  nodding  gravely  now  and 
then,  and  gazing  at  themselves,  with  a  sigh  in 
the  mirror  below. 

In  this  quiet  haunt  of  rural  repose  I  used  to 
sit  at  noon,  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  "possess 
myself  in  much  quietness."  Just  at  my  feet 


The   Village  of  Auteuil  53 

lay  the  little  silver  pool,  with  the  sky  and  the 
woods  painted  in  its  mimic  vault,  and  occasion 
ally  the  image  of  a  bird,  or  the  soft,  watery 
outline  of  a  cloud,  floating  silently  through 
its  sunny  hollows.  The  water-lily  spread  its 
broad,  green  leaves  on  the  surface,  and  rocked 
to  sleep  a  little  world  of  insect  life  in  its  golden 
cradle.  Sometimes  a  wandering  leaf  came 
floating  and  wavering  downward,  and  settled 
on  the  water ;  then  a  vagabond  insect  would 
break  the  smooth  surface  into  a  thousand  rip 
ples,  or  a  green-coated  frog  slide  from  the 
bank,  and,  plump !  dive  headlong  to  the 
bottom. 

I  entered,  too,  with  some  enthusiasm,  into 
all  the  rural  sports  and  merrimakes  of  the  vil 
lage.  The  holidays  were  so  many  little  eras 
of  mirth  and  good  feeling ;  for  the  French 
have  that  happy  and  sunshiny  temperament, — 
that  merry-go-mad  character,  —  which  renders 
all  their  social  meetings  scenes  of  enjoyment 
and  hilarity.  I  made  it  a  point  never  to  miss 
any  of  the  fetes  champetres,  or  rural  dances, 
at  the  wood  of  Boulogne ;  though  I  confess  it 
sometimes  gave  me  a  momentary  uneasiness 
to  see  my  rustic  throne  beneath  the  oak 
usurped  by  a  noisy  group  of  girls,  the  silence 


54  The   Village  of  Auteuil 

and  decorum  of  my  imaginary  realm  broken 
by  music  and  laughter,  and,  in  a  word,  my 
whole  kingdom  turned  topsy-turvy  with  romp 
ing,  fiddling,  and  dancing.  But  I  am  naturally, 
and  from  principle,  too,  a  lover  of  all  those  in 
nocent  amusements  which  cheer  the  laborer's 
toil,  and,  as  it  were,  put  their  shoulders  to  the 
wheel  of  life,  and  help  the  poor  man  along 
with  his  load  of  cares.  Hence  I  saw  with  no 
small  delight  the  rustic  swain  astride  the 
wooden  horse  of  the  carrousel,  and  the  village 
maiden  whirling  round  and  round  in  its  dizzy 
car  ;  or  took  my  stand  on  a  rising  ground  that 
overlooked  the  dance,  an  idle  spectator  in  a 
busy  throng.  It  was  just  where  the  village 
touched  the  outward  border  of  the  wood. 
There  a  little  area  had  been  levelled  beneath 
the  trees,  surrounded  by  a  painted  rail,  with  a 
row  of  benches  inside.  The  music  was  placed 
in  a  slight  balcony,  built  around  the  trunk  of  a 
large  tree  in  the  centre  ;  and  the  lamps,  hang 
ing  from  the  branches  above,  gave  a  gay,  fan 
tastic,  and  fairy  look  to  the  scene.  How  often 
in  such  moments  did  I  recall  the  lines  of  Gold 
smith,  describing  those  "  kinder  skies  "  beneath 
which  "  France  displays  her  bright  domain," 
and  feel  how  true  and  masterly  the  sketch,  — - 


The   Village  of  Auteuil  55 

"  Alike  all  ages  ;  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 
And  the  gray  grandsire,  skilled  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore," 

Nor  must  I  forget  to  mention  \h&  fete patro- 
nale,  —  a  kind  of  annual  fair,  which  is  held  at 
midsummer,  in  honor  of  the  patron  saint  of 
Auteuil.  Then  the  principal  street  of  the  vil 
lage  is  rilled  with  booths  of  every  description  ; 
strolling  players,  and  rope-dancers,  and  jug 
glers,  and  giants,  and  dwarfs,  and  wild  beasts, 
and  all  kinds  of  wonderful  shows,  excite  the 
gaping  curiosity  of  the  throng  ;  and  in  dust, 
crowds,  and  confusion,  the  village  rivals  the 
capital  itself.  Then  the  goodly  dames  of  Pas- 
sy  descend  into  the  village  of  Auteuil  ;  then 
the  brewers  of  Billancourt  and  the  tanners 
of  Sevres  dance  lustily  under  the  greenwood 
tree ;  and  then,  too,  the  sturdy  fishmongers  of 
Bretigny  and  Saint- Yon  regale  their  wives 
with  an  airing  in  a  swing,  and  their  customers 
with  eels  and  crawfish  ;  or,  as  is  more  poeti 
cally  set  forth  in  an  old  Christmas  carol,  — 

"  Vous  eussiez  vu  venir 

Tous  ceux  de  Saint  -Yon, 

Et  ceux  de  Bretigny 
Apportant  du  poisson, 

Les  barbeaux  et  gardens, 


56  The   Village  of  Auteuil 

Anguilles  et  carpettes 
Etaient  a  bon  marche 

Croyez, 
A  cette  journee-la, 

La,  la, 
Et  aussi  les  perchettes." 

I  found  another  source  of  amusement  in  ob 
serving  the  various  personages  that  daily 
passed  and  repassed  beneath  my  window. 
The  character  which  most  of  all  arrested  my 
attention  was  a  poor  blind  fiddler,  whom  I  first 
saw  chanting  a  doleful  ballad  at  the  door  of  a 
small  tavern  near  the  gate  of  the  village.  He 
wore  a  brown  coat,  out  at  elbows,  the  fragment 
of  a  velvet  waistcoat,  and  a  pair  of  tight  nan 
keen  trousers,  so  short  as  hardly  to  reach  be 
low  his  calves.  A  little  foraging-cap,  that  had 
long  since  seen  its  best  days,  set  off  an  open, 
good-humored  countenance,  bronzed  by  sun 
and  wind.  He  was  led  about  by  a  brisk,  mid 
dle-aged  woman,  in  straw  hat  and  wooden 
shoes ;  and  a  little  barefooted  boy,  with  clear, 
blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair,  held  a  tattered  hat  in 
his  hand,  in  which  he  collected  eleemosynary 
sous.  The  old  fellow  had  a  favorite  song,  which 
he  used  to  sing  with  great  glee  to  a  merry,  joy 
ous  air,  the  burden  of  which  ran,  "  Chantons 


The   Village  of  Auteuil  57 

F  amour  et  le  plaisir!  "  I  often  thought  it  would 
have  been  a  good  lesson  for  the  crabbed  and 
discontented  rich  man  to  have  heard  this  rem 
nant  of  humanity,  —  poor,  blind,  and  in  rags, 
and  dependent  upon  casual  charity  for  his  daily 
bread,  singing  in  so  cheerful  a  voice  the  charms 
of  existence,  and,  as  it  were,  fiddling  life  away 
to  a  merry  tune. 

I  was  one  morning  called  to  my  window  by 
the  sound  of  rustic  music.  I  looked  out  and 
beheld  a  procession  of  villagers  advancing 
along  the  road,  attired  in  gay  dresses,  and 
marching  merrily  on  in  the  direction  of  the 
church.  I  soon  perceived  that  it  was  a  mar 
riage-festival.  The  procession  was  led  by  a 
long  orang-outang  of  a  man,  in  a  straw  hat 
and  white  dimity  bob-coat,  playing  on  an  asth 
matic  clarionet,  from  which  he  contrived  to 
blow  unearthly  sounds,  ever  and  anon  squeak 
ing  off  at  right  angles  from  his  tune,  and  wind 
ing  up  with  a  grand  flourish  on  the  guttural 
notes.  Behind  him,  led  by  his  little  boy,  came 
the  blind  fiddler,  his  honest  features  glowing 
with  all  the  hilarity  of  a  rustic  bridal,  and,  as 
he  stumbled  along,  sawing  away  upon  his  fid 
dle  till  he  made  all  crack  again.  Then  came 
the  happy  bridegroom,  dressed  in  his  Sunday 


58  The   Village  of  Auteuil 

suit  of  blue,  with  a  large  nosegay  in  his  but 
ton-hole  ;  and  close  beside  him  his  blushing 
bride,  with  downcast  eyes,  clad  in  a  white  robe 
and  slippers,  and  wearing  a  wreath  of  white 
roses  in  her  hair.  The  friends  and  relatives 
brought  up  the  procession  ;  and  a  troop  of 
village  urchins  came  shouting  along  in  the 
rear,  scrambling  among  themselves  for  the 
largess  of  sous  and  sugar-plums  that  now  and 
then  issued  in  large  handfuls  from  the  pockets 
of  a  lean  man  in  black,  who  seemed  to  officiate 
as  master  of  ceremonies  on  the  occasion.  I 
gazed  on  the  procession  till  it  was  out  of  sight ; 
and  when  the  last  wheeze  of  the  clarionet  died 
upon  my  ear,  I  could  not  help  thinking  how 
happy  were  they  who  were  thus  to  dwell  to 
gether  in  the  peaceful  bosom  of  their  native 
village,  far  from  the  gilded  misery  and  the  pes 
tilential  vices  of  the  town. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  I  was  sit 
ting  by  the  window,  enjoying  the  freshness  of 
the  air  and  the  beauty  and  stillness  of  the 
hour,  when  I  heard  the  distant  and  solemn 
hymn  of  the  Catholic  burial-service,  at  first  so 
faint  and  indistinct  that  it  seemed  an  illusion. 
It  rose  mournfully  on  the  hush  of  evening,  — 
died  gradually  away,  —  then  ceased.  Then  it 


The   Village  of  Auteuil  59 

ros£  again,  nearer  and  more  distinct,  and  soon 
after  a  funeral  procession  appeared,  and  passed 
directly  beneath  my  window.  It  was  led  by  a 
priest,  bearing  the  banner  of  the  church,  and 
followed  by  two  boys,  holding  long  flambeaux 
in  their  hands.  Next  came  a  double  file  of 
priests  in  their  surplices,  with  a  missal  in  one 
hand  and  a  lighted  wax  taper  in  the  other, 
chanting  the  funeral  dirge  at  intervals, —  now 
pausing,  and  then  again  taking  up  the  mournful 
burden  of  their  lamentation,  accompanied  by 
others,  who  played  upon  a  rude  kind  of  bassoon, 
with  a  dismal  and  wailing  sound.  Then  fol 
lowed  various  symbols  of  the  church,  and  the 
bier  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  four  men.  The 
coffin  was  covered  with  a  velvet  pall,  and  a 
chaplet  of  white  flowers  lay  upon  it,  indicating 
that  the  deceased  was  unmarried.  A  few  of 
the  villagers  came  behind,  clad  in  mourning 
robes,  and  bearing  lighted  tapers.  The  pro 
cession  passed  slowly  along  the  same  street 
that  in  the  morning  had  been  thronged  by  the 
gay  bridal  company.  A  melancholy  train  of 
thought  forced  itself  home  upon  my  mind. 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  this  world  are  so 
strikingly  mingled !  Our  mirth  and  grief  are 
brought  so  mournfully  in  contact !  We  laugh 


6o  The   Village  of  Auteuil 

while  others  weep,  —  and  others  rejoice  when 
we  are  sad  !  The  light  heart  and  the  heavy 
walk  side  by  side  and  go  about  together  !  Be 
neath  the  same  roof  are  spread  the  wedding- 
feast  and  the  funeral-pall !  The  bridal-song 
mingles  with  the  burial-hymn  !  One  goes  to 
the  marriage-bed,  another  to  the  grave ;  and 
all  is  mutable,  uncertain,  and  transitory. 

It  is  with  sensations  of  pure  delight  that  I 
recur  to  the  brief  period  of  my  existence 
which  was  passed  in  the  peaceful  shades  of 
Auteuil.  (^There  is  one  kind  of  wisdom  which 
we  learn  from  the  world,  and  another  kind 
which  can  be  acquired  in  solitude  only.  In 
cities  we  study  those  around  us ;  but  in  the 
retirement  of  the  country  we  learn  to  know 
ourselves.^  The  voice  within  us  is  more  dis 
tinctly  audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  place  ; 
and  the  gentler  affections  of  our  nature  spring 
up  more  freshly  in  its  tranquillity  and  sunshine, 
• — nurtured  by  the  healthy  principle  which  we 
inhale  with  the  pure  air,  and  invigorated  by 
the  genial  influences  which  descend  into  the 
heart  from  the  quiet  of  the  sylvan  solitude 
around,  and  the  soft  serenity  of  the  sky  above. 


JACQUELINE 


Death  lies  on  her,  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


EAR   mother,    is    it    not    the    bell    I 

hear?" 

"  Yes,  my  child ;  the  bell  for  morning 
prayers.  It  is  Sunday  to-day." 

"I  had  forgotten  it.  But  now  all  days  are 
alike  to  me.  Hark!  it  sounds  again,  —  louder, 
—  louder.  Open  the  window,  for  I  love  the 
sound.  The  sunshine  and  the  fresh  morning 
air  revive  me.  And  the  church-bell,  —  O  moth 
er,  —  it  reminds  me  of  the  holy  Sunday  morn 
ings  by  the  Loire,  —  so  calm,  so  hushed,  so 
beautiful !  Now  give  me  my  prayer-book,  and 
draw  the  curtain  back,  that  I  may  see  the 
green  trees  and  the  church-spire.  I  feel  bet 
ter  to-day,  dear  mother." 

It  was  a  bright,  cloudless  morning  in  August 
The  dew  still  glistened  on  the  trees  ;  and  a 
slight  breeze  wafted  to  the  sick-chamber  of 
Jacqueline  the  song  of  the  birds,  the  rustle 


62  Jacqueline 

of  the  leaves,  and  the  solemn  chime  of  the 
church-bells.  She  had  been  raised  up  in  bed, 
and,  reclining  upon  the  pillow,  was  gazing  wist 
fully  upon  the  quiet  scene  without.  Her 
mother  gave  her  the  prayer-book,  and  then 
turned  away  to  hide  a  tear  that  stole  down  her 
cheek. 

At  length  the  bells  ceased.  Jacqueline 
crossed  herself,  kissed  a  pearl  crucifix  that 
hung  around  her  neck,  and  opened  the  silver 
clasps  of  her  missal.  For  a  time  she  seemed 
wholly  absorbed  in  her  devotions.  Her  lips 
moved,  but  no  sound  was  audible.  At  inter 
vals  the  solemn  voice  of  the  priest  was  heard 
at  a  distance,  and  then  the  confused  responses 
of  the  congregation,  dying  away  in  inartic 
ulate  murmurs.  Ere  long  the  thrilling  chant 
of  the  Catholic  service  broke  upon  the  ear. 
At  first  it  was  low,  solemn,  and  indistinct  ; 
then  it  became  more  earnest  and  entreating, 
as  if  interceding  and  imploring  pardon  for  sin ; 
and  then  arose  louder  and  louder,  full,  harmo 
nious,  majestic,  as  it  wafted  the  song  of  praise 
to  heaven — and  suddenly  ceased.  Then  the 
sweet  tones  of  the  organ  were  heard,  — 
trembling,  thrilling,  and  rising  higher  and 
higher,  and  filling  the  whole  air  with  their 


Jacqueline  63 

rich,  melodious  music.  What  exquisite  ac 
cords! —  what  noble  harmonies! — what  touch 
ing  pathos  !  The  soul  of  the  sick  girl  seemed 
to  kindle  into  more  ardent  devotion,  and  to  be 
rapt  away  to  heaven  in  the  full,  harmonious 
chorus,  as  it  swelled  onward,  doubling  and  re 
doubling,  and  rolling  upward  in  a  full  burst  of 
rapturous  devotion  !  Then  all  was  hushed 
again.  Once  more  the  low  sound  of  the  bell 
smote  the  air,  and  announced  the  elevation  of 
the  host.  The  invalid  seemed  entranced  in 
prayer.  Her  book  had  fallen  beside  her,  — 
her  hands  were  clasped,  —  her  eyes  closed,  — 
her  soul  retired  within  its  secret  chambers. 
Then  a  more  triumphant  peal  of  bells  arose. 
The  tears  gushed  from  her  closed  and  swollen 
lids ;  her  cheek  was  flushed  ;  she  opened  her 
dark  eyes,  and  fixed  them  with  an  expression 
of  deep  adoration  and  penitence  upon  an 
image  of  the  Saviour  on  the  cross,  which  hung 
at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  and  her  lips  again 
moved  in  prayer.  Her  countenance  expressed 
the  deepest  resignation.  She  seemed  to  ask 
only  that  she  might  die  in  peace,  and  go  to  the 
bosom  of  her  Redeemer. 

The  mother  was  kneeling  by  the  window, 
with  her  face  concealed  in  the  folds  of  the  cur- 


64  Jacqueline 

tain.  She  arose,  and,  going  to  the  bedside  of 
her  child,  threw  her  arms  around  her  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"  My  dear  mother,  I  shall  not  live  long ;  I 
feel  it  here.  This  piercing  pain,  —  at  times  it 
seizes  me,  and  I  cannot  —  cannot  breathe." 

"  My  child,  you  will  be  better  soon." 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  shall  be  better  soon.  All 
tears,  and  pain,  and  sorrow  will  be  over.  The 
hymn  of  adoration  and  entreaty  I  have  just 
heard,  I  shall  never  hear  again  on  earth. 
Next  Sunday,  mother,  kneel  again  by  that 
window  as  to-day.  I  shall  not  be  here,  upon 
this  bed  of  pain  and  sickness  ;  but  when  you 
hear  the  solemn  hymn  of  worship,  and  the  be 
seeching  tones  that  wing  the  spirit  up  to  God, 
think,  mother,  that  I  am  there,  with  my  sweet 
sister  who  has  gone  before  us, ' —  kneeling  at 
our  Saviour's  feet,  and  happy,  —  O,  how  hap- 
py!" 

The  afflicted  mother  made  no  reply,  —  hef 
heart  was  too  full  to  speak. 

"  You  remember,  mother,  how  calmly  Amie 
died.  She  was  so  young  and  beautiful !  I  al 
ways  pray  that  I  may  die  as  she  did.  I  do 
not  fear  death,  as  I  did  before  she  was  taken 
from  us.  But,  O,  —  this  pain,  —  this  cruel 


Jacqueline  65 

pain  !  —  it  seems  to  draw  my  mind  back  from 
heaven.  When  it  leaves  me,  I  shall  die  in 
peace." 

"  My  poor  child  !    God's  holy  will  be  done  !  " 

The  invalid  soon  sank  into  a  quiet  slumber. 
The  excitement  was  over,  and  exhausted  na 
ture  sought  relief  in  sleep. 

The  persons  between  whom  this  scene 
passed  were  a  widow  and  her  sick  daughter, 
from  the  neighborhood  of  Tours.  They  had 
left  the  banks  of  the  Loire  to  consult  the  more 
experienced  physicians  of  the  metropolis,  and 
had  been  directed  to  the  Maison  de  sante  at 
Auteuil  for  the  benefit  of  the  pure  air.  But 
all  in  vain.  The  health  of  the  uncomplaining 
patient  grew  worse  and  worse,  and  it  soon  be 
came  evident  that  the  closing  scene  was  draw 
ing  near. 

Of  this  Jacqueline  herself  seemed  conscious  ; 
and  towards  evening  she  expressed  a  wish  to 
receive  the  last  sacraments  of  the  church.  A 
priest  was  sent  for  ;  and  ere  long  the  tinkling 
of  a  little  bell  in  the  street  announced  his  ap 
proach.  He  bore  in  his  hand  a  silver  chalice 
containing  the  consecrated  wafer,  and  a  small 
vessel  filled  with  the  holy  oil  of  the  extreme 
unction  hung  from  his  neck.  Before  him 


66  Jacqueline 

walked  a  boy  carrying  a  little  bell,  whose  sound 
announced  the  passing  of  these  symbols  of  the 
Catholic  faith.  In  the  rear,  a  few  of  the  vil 
lagers,  bearing  lighted  wax  tapers,  formed  a 
short  and  melancholy  procession.  They  soon 
entered  the  sick-chamber,  and  the  glimmer  of 
the  tapers  mingled  with  the  red  light  of  the 
setting  sun  that  shot  his  farewell  rays  through 
the  open  window.  The  vessel  of  oil  and  the  sil 
ver  chalice  were  placed  upon  the  table  in  front 
of  a  crucifix  that  hung  upon  the  wall,  and  all 
present,  excepting  the  priest,  threw  themselves 
upon  their  knees.  The  priest  then  approached 
the  bed  of  the  dying  girl,  and  said,  in  a  slow 
and  solemn  tone,  — 

"  The  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of  lords  has 
passed  thy  threshold.  Is  thy  spirit  ready  to 
receive  him  ? " 

"  It  is,  father." 

"  Hast  thou  confessed  thy  sins  ?  " 

"  Holy  father,  no." 

"  Confess  thyself,  then,  that  thy  sins  may  be 
forgiven,  and  thy  name  recorded  in  the  book 
of  life." 

And,  turning  to  the  kneeling  crowd  around, 
he  waved  his  hand  for  them  to  retire,  an  i  was 
left  alone  with  the  sick  girl.  He  seated  him- 


Jacqueline  67 

self  beside  her  pillow,  and  the  subdued  whisper 
of  the  confession  mingled  with  the  murmur  of 
the  evening  air,  which  lifted  the  heavy  folds  of 
the  curtains,  and  stole  in  upon  the  holy  scene. 
Poor  Jacqueline  had  few  sins  to  confess,  —  a 
secret  thought  or  two  towards  the  pleasures 
and  delights  of  the  world,  —  a  wish  to  live, 
unuttered,  but  which,  to  the  eye  of  her  self- 
accusing  spirit,  seemed  to  resist  the  wise  provi 
dence  of  God  ;  —  no  more.  The  confession  of 
a  meek  and  lowly  heart  is  soon  made.  The 
door  was  again  opened ;  the  attendants  en 
tered,  and  knelt  around  the  bed,  and  the  priest 
proceeded,  — 

"And  now  prepare  thyself  to  receive  with 
contrite  heart  the  body  of  our  blessed  Lord 
and  Redeemer.  Dost  thou  believe  that  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ  was  conceived  by  the  Holy 
Spirit,  and  born  of  the  Virgin  Mary  ? " 

"  I  believe." 

And  all  present  joined  in  the  solemn  re 
sponse,  — 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  the  Father  is  God, 
that  the  Son  is  God,  and  that  the  Holy  Spirit 
is  God,  — three  persons  and  one  God  ? " 

"  I  believe." 


68  Jacqueline 

*  Dost  thou  believe  that  the  Son  is  seated 
on  the  right  hand  of  the  Majesty  on  high, 
whence  he  shall  come  to  judge  the  quick  and 
the  dead  ? " 

"I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  by  the  holy  sacra 
ments  of  the  church  thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee, 
and  that  thus  thou  art  made  worthy  of  eternal 
life  ? " 

"I  believe." 

"Dost  thou  pardon,  with  all  thy  heart,  all 
who  have  offended  thee  in  thought,  word,  or 
deed  ? " 

"  I  pardon  them." 

:  "  And  dost  thou  ask  pardon  of  God  and 
thy  neighbor  for  all  offences  thou  hast  commit 
ted  against  them,  either  in  thought,  word  or 
deed  ? " 

"  I  do  !  " 

"  Then  repeat  after  me,  —  O  Lord  Jesus,  I 
am  not  worthy,  nor  do  I  merit,  that  thy  divine 
majesty  should  enter  this  poor  tenement  of 
clay  ;  but,  according  to  thy  holy  promises,  be 
my  sins  forgiven,  and  my  soul  washed  white 
from  all  transgression." 

Then,  taking  a  consecrated  wafer  from  the 
vase,  he  placed  it  between  the  lips  of  the  dying 


Jacqueline  69 

girl,  and,  while  the  assistant  sounded  the  little 
silver  bell,  said,  — 

"  Corpus  Domini  nostri  Jesu  Christi  custodiat 
animam  tuam  in  vitam  eternam" 

And  the  kneeling  crowd  smote  their  breasts 
and  responded  in  one  solemn  voice,  — 

11  Amen  ! " 

The  priest  then  took  a  little  golden  rod, 
and,  dipping  it  in  holy  oil,  anointed  the  invalid 
upon  the  hands,  feet,  and  breast,  in  the  form  of 
the  cross.  When  these  ceremonies  were  com 
pleted,  the  priest  and  his  attendants  retired, 
leaving  the  mother  alone  with  her  dying  child, 
who,  from  the  exhaustion  caused  by  the  pre 
ceding  scene,  sank  into  a  deathlike  sleep. 

"  Between  two  worlds  life  hovered  like  a  star, 
'Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge." 

The  long  twilight  of  the  summer  evening 
stole  on  ;  the  shadows  deepened  without,  and 
the  night-lamp  glimmered  feebly  in  the  sick- 
chamber  ;  but  still  she  slept.  She  was  lying 
with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  breast,  —  her 
pallid  cheek  resting  upon  the  pillow,  and  her 
bloodless  lips  apart,  but  motionless  and  silent 
as  the  sleep  of  death.  Not  a  breath  inter 
rupted  the  silence  of  her  slumber.  Not  a 


7O  Jacqueline 

movement  of  the  heavy  and  sunken  eyelid,  not 
a  trembling  of  the  lip,  not  a  shadow  on  the 
marble  brow,  told  when  the  spirit  took  its 
flight.  It  passed  to  a  better  world  than  this : — 

"  There  's  a  perpetual  spring,  —  perpetual  youth ; 
No  joint-benumbing  cold,  nor  scorching  heat, 
Faming,  nor  age,  have  any  being  there." 


THE  SEXAGENARIAN 


Do  you  set  down  your  name  in  the  scroll  of  youth,  that  are  written 
down  old,  with  all  the  characters  of  age  ?  Have  you  not  a  moist  eye,  a 
dry  hand,  a  yellow  cheek,  a  white  beard,  a  decreasing  leg  ? 

SHAKESPEARE, 


r  I  "'HERE  he  goes,  in  his  long  russet  surtout, 
-*-  sweeping  down  yonder  gravel-walk,  be 
neath  the  trees,  like  a  yellow  leaf  in  autumn 
wafted  along  by  a  fitful  gust  of  wind.  Now 
he  pauses,  —  now  seems  to  be  whirled  round 
in  an  eddy,  —  and  now  rustles  and  brushes  on 
ward  again.  He  is  talking  to  himself  in  an 
undertone,  as  usual,  and  nourishes  a  pinch  of 
snuff  between  his  forefinger  and  his  thumb, 
ever  and  anon  drumming  on  the  cover  of  his 
box,  by  way  of  emphasis,  with  a  sound  like  the 
tap  of  a  woodpecker.  He  always  takes  a 
morning  walk  in  the  garden,  —  in  fact,  I  may 
say  he  passes  the  greater  part  of  the  day  there, 
either  strolling  up  and  down  the  gravel-walks, 
or  sitting  on  a  rustic  bench  in  one  of  the  leafy 
arbors.  He  always  wears  that  same  dress,  too ; 
a  bell-crowned  hat,  a  frilled  bosom,  and  white 


72  The  Sexagenarian 

dimity  waistcoat  soiled  with  snuff, — light  nan 
keen  breeches,  and,  over  all,  that  long  and 
flowing  surtout  of  russet-brown  Circassian, 
hanging  in  wrinkles  round  his  slender  body, 
and  toying  with  his  thin,  rakish  legs.  Such 
is  his  constant  garb,  morning  and  evening  ; 
and  it  gives  him  a  cool  and  breezy  look,  even 
in  the  heat  of  a  noonday  in  August. 

The  personage  sketched  in  the  preceding 
paragraph  is  Monsieur  d'Argentville,  a  sexa 
genarian,  with  whom  I  became  acquainted 
during  my  residence  at  the  Maison  de  santi  of 
Auteuil.  I  found  him  there,  and  left  him 
there.  Nobody  knew  when  he  came,  —  he 
had  been  there  from  time  immemorial ;  nor 
when  he  was  going  away,  — for  he  himself  did 
not  know  ;  nor  what  ailed  him,  —  for  though 
he  was  always  complaining,  yet  he  grew  nei 
ther  better  nor  worse,  never  consulted  the 
physician,  and  ate  voraciously  three  times  a 
day.  At  table  he  was  rather  peevish,  troubled 
his  neighbors  with  his  elbows,  and  uttered  the 
monosyllable  pouah  !  rather  oftener  than  good- 
breeding  and  a  due  deference  to  the  opinions 
of  others  seemed  to  justify.  As  soon  as  he 
seated  himself  at  table,  he  breathed  into  his 
tumbler,  and  wiped  it  out  with  a  napkin  ;  then 


The  Sexagenarian  73 

wiped  his  plate,  his  spoon,  his  knife  and  fork 
in  succession,  and  each  with  great  care.  After 
this  he  placed  the  napkin  under  his  chin  ;  and, 
these  preparations  being  completed,  gave  full 
swing  to  an  appetite  which  was  not  inappro 
priately  denominated,  by  one  of  our  guests, 
"  unefaim  canine." 

The  old  gentleman's  weak  side  was  an  af 
fectation  of  youth  and  gallantry.  Though 
"  written  down  old,  with  all  the  characters  of 
age,"  yet  at  times  he  seemed  to  think  himself 
in  the  heyday  of  life ;  and  the  assiduous  court 
he  paid  to  a  fair  countess,  who  was  passing  the 
summer  at  the  Maison  de  santt,  was  the  source 
of  no  little  merriment  to  all  but  himself.  He 
loved,  too,  to  recall  the  golden  age  of  his 
amours ;  and  would  discourse  with  prolix  elo 
quence,  and  a  faint  twinkle  in  his  watery  eye, 
of  his  bonnes  fortunes  in  times  of  old,  and  the 
rigors  that  many  a  fair  dame  had  suffered  on 
his  account.  Indeed,  his  chief  pride  seemed 
to  be  to  make  his  hearers  believe  that  he  had 
been  a  dangerous  man  in  his  youth,  and  was 
not  yet  quite  safe. 

As  I  also  was  a  peripatetic  of  the  garden, 
we  encountered  each  other  at  every  turn.     At 
first  our  conversation  was  limited  to  the  usual 
4 


74  The  Sexagenarian 

salutations  of  the  day ;  but  erelong  our  cas 
ual  acquaintance  ripened  into  a  kind  of  inti 
macy.  Step  by  step  I  won  my  way,  —  first 
into  his  society,  —  then  into  his  snuff-box,  — 
and  then  into  his  heart.  He  was  a  great  talk 
er,  and  he  found  in  me  what  he  found  in  no 
other  inmate  of  the  house,  —  a  good  listener, 
who  never  interrupted  his  long  stories,  nor 
contradicted  his  opinions.  So  he  talked  down 
one  alley  and  up  another,  —  from  breakfast  till 
dinner,  —  from  dinner  till  midnight,  —  at  all 
times  and  in  all  places,  when  he  could  catch 
me  by  the  button,  till  at  last  he  had  confided 
to  my  ear  all  the  important  and  unimportant 
events  of  a  life  of  sixty  years. 

Monsieur  d'Argentville  was  a  shoot  from  a 
wealthy  family  of  Nantes.  Just  before  the 
Revolution,  he  went  up  to  Paris  to  study  law 
at  the  University,  and,  like  many  other 
wealthy  scholars  of  his  age,  was  soon  involved 
in  the  intrigues  and  dissipation  of  the  metrop 
olis.  He  first  established  himself  in  the  Rue 
de  rUniversite'  ;  but  a  roguish  pair  of  eyes  at 
an  opposite  window  soon  drove  from  the  field 
such  heavy  tacticians  as  Hugues  Doneau  and 
Gui  Coquille.  A  flirtation  was  commenced  in 
due  form  ;  and  a  flag  of  truce,  offering  to  ca- 


The  Sexagenarian  75 

pitulate,  was  sent  in  the  shape  of  a  billet-doux. 
In  the  mean  time  he  regularly  amused  his  lei 
sure  hours  by  blowing  kisses  across  the  street 
with  an  old  pair  of  bellows.  One  afternoon, 
as  he  was  occupied  in  this  way,  a  tall  gentle 
man  with  whiskers  stepped  into  the  room,  just 
as  he  had  charged  the  bellows  to  the  muzzle. 
He  muttered  something  about  an  explanation, 
—  his  sister, — marriage,  —  and  the  satisfaction 
of  a  gentleman  !  Perhaps  there  is  no  situation 
in  life  so  awkward  to  a  man  of  real  sensibility 
as  that  of  being  awed  into  matrimony  or  a 
duel  by  the  whiskers  of  a  tall  brother.  There 
was  but  one  alternative  ;  and  the  next  morn 
ing  a  placard  at  the  window  of  the  Bachelor 
of  Love,  with  the  words  "  Furnished  Apart 
ment  to  let,"  showed  that  the  former  occupant 
had  found  it  convenient  to  change  lodgings. 

He  next  appeared  in  the  Chaussee-d'Antin, 
where  he  assiduously  prepared  himself  for  fu 
ture  exigencies  by  a  course  of  daily  lessons  in 
the  use  of  the  small-sword.  He  soon  after 
quarrelled  with  his  best  friend,  about  a  little 
actress  on  the  Boulevard,  and  had  the  satisfac 
tion  of  being  jilted,  and  then  run  through  the 
body  at  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  This  gave  him 
new  edat  in  the  fashionable  world,  and  conse- 


76  The  Sexagenarian 

quently  he  pursued  pleasure  with  a  keener 
relish  than  ever.  He  next  had  the  grande 
passion,  and  narrowly  escaped  marrying  an 
heiress  of  great  expectations,  and  a  countless 
number  of  chateaux.  Just  before  the  catas 
trophe,  however,  he  had  the  good  fortune  to 
discover  that  the  lady's  expectations  were  lim 
ited  to  his  own  pocket,  and  that,  as  for  her 
chateaux,  they  were  all  Chateaux  en  Espagne. 

About  this  time  his  father  died  ;  and  the 
hopeful  son  was  hardly  well  established  in  his 
inheritance,  when  the  Revolution  broke  out. 
Unfortunately  he  was  a  firm  upholder  of  the 
divine  right  of  kings,  and  had  the  honor  of 
being  among  the  first  of  the  proscribed.  He 
narrowly  escaped  the  guillotine  by  jumping 
on  board  a  vessel  bound  for  America,  and  ar 
rived  at  Boston  with  only  a  few  francs  in  his 
pocket ;  but,  as  he  knew  how  to  accommodate 
himself  to  circumstances,  he  contrived  to  live 
by  teaching  fencing  and  French,  and  keeping 
a  dancing-school. 

At  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  he  re 
turned  to  France  ;  and  from  that  time  to  the 
day  of  our  acquaintance  had  been  engaged  in 
a  series  of  vexatious  lawsuits,  in  the  hope  of 
recovering  a  portion  of  his  property,  which 


The  Sexagenarian  77 

had  been  intrusted  to  a  friend  for  safe  keeping 
at  the  commencement  of  the  Revolution.  His 
friend,  however,  denied  all  knowledge  of  the 
transaction,  and  the  assignment  was  very  diffi 
cult  to  prove.  Twelve  years  of  unsuccessful 
litigation  had  completely  soured  the  old  gen 
tleman's  temper,  and  made  him  peevish  and 
misanthropic  ;  and  he  had  come  to  Auteuil 
merely  to  escape  the  noise  of  the  city,  and  to 
brace  his  shattered  nerves  with  pure  air  and 
quiet  amusements.  There  he  idled  the  time 
away,  sauntering  about  the  garden  of  the 
Maison  de  sante,  talking  to  himself  when  he 
could  get  no  other  listener,  and  occasionally 
reinforcing  his  misanthropy  with  a  dose  of  the 
Maxims  of  La  Rochefoucauld,  or  a  visit  to  the 
scene  of  his  duel  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

Poor  Monsieur  d'Argentville !  What  a 
miserable  life  he  led,  —  or  rather  dragged  on, 
from  day  to  day  !  A  petulant,  broken-down 
old  man,  who  had  outlived  his  fortune,  and  his 
friends,  and  his  hopes,  —  yea,  everything  but 
the  sting  of  bad  passions  and  the  recollection 
of  a  life  ill-spent !  Whether  he  still  walks  the 
earth  or  slumbers  in  its  bosom,  I  know  not  ; 
but  a  lively  recollection  of  him  will  always 
mingle  with  my  reminiscences  of  Auteuil. 


PERE   LA  CHAISE 


Our  fathers  find  their  graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us 
how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors. 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater  part  must  be  content  to  be  as 
though  they  had  not  been,  —  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God,  not  in  the 
record  of  man. 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE'S  URN  BURIAL. 


THE  cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise  is  the 
Westminster  Abbey  of  Paris.  Both  are 
the  dwellings  of  the  dead  ;  but  in  one  they 
repose  in  green  alleys  and  beneath  the  open 
sky,  —  in  the  other  their  resting-place  is  in 
the  shadowy  aisle,  and  beneath  the  dim  arches 
of  an  ancient  abbey.  One  is  a  temple  of 
nature  ;  the  other  a  temple  of  art.  In  one, 
the  soft  melancholy  of  the  scene  is  rendered 
still  more  touching  by  the  warble  of  birds  and 
the  shade  of  trees,  and  the  grave  receives  the 
gentle  visit  of  the  sunshine  and  the  shower : 
in  the  other,  no  sound  but  the  passing  footfall 
breaks  the  silence  of  the  place  ;  the  twilight 
steals  in  through  high  and  dusky  windows ; 
and  the  damps  of  the  gloomy  vault  lie  heavy 


Pere  la  Chaise  79 

on  the  heart,  and  leave  their  stain  upon  the 
mouldering  tracery  of  the  tomb. 

Pere  la  Chaise  stands  just  beyond  the  Bar- 
riere  d'Aulney,  on  a  hill-side,  looking  towards 
the  city.  Numerous  gravel-walks,  winding 
through  shady  avenues  and  between  marble 
monuments,  lead  up  from  the  principal  en 
trance  to  a  chapel  on  the  summit.  There  is 
hardly  a  grave  that  has  not  its  little  enclosure 
planted  with  shrubbery ;  and  a  thick  mass  of 
foliage  half  conceals  each  funeral  stone.  The 
sighing  of  the  wind,  as  the  branches  rise  and 
fall  upon  it,  —  the  occasional  note  of  a  bird 
among  the  trees,  and  the  shifting  of  light  and 
shade  upon  the  tombs  beneath,  have  a  sooth 
ing  effect  upon  the  mind  ;  and  I  doubt  whether 
any  one  can  enter  that  enclosure,  where  re 
pose  the  dust  and  ashes  of  so  many  great  and 
good  men,  without  feeling  the  religion  of  the 
place  steal  over  him,  and  seeing  something  of 
the  dark  and  gloomy  expression  pass  off  from 
the  stern  countenance  of  death. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  a  bright  summer 
afternoon  that  I  visited  this  celebrated  spot  for 
the  first  time.  The  first  object  that  arrested 
my  attention,  on  entering,  was  a  monument  in 
the  form  of  a  small  Gothic  chapel,  which 


8o  Pere  la  Chaise 

stands  near  the  entrance,  in  the  avenue  lead 
ing  to  the  right  hand.  On  the  marble  couch 
within  are  stretched  two  figures,  carved  in 
stone  and  dressed  in  the  antique  garb  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Abelard  and 
Helo'fse.  The  history  of  these  unfortunate  lov 
ers  is  too  well  known  to  need  recapitulation ; 
but  perhaps  it  is  not  so  well  known  how  often 
their  ashes  were  disturbed  in  the  slumber  of 
the  grave.  Aboard  died  in  the  monastery  of 
Saint  Marcel,  and  was  buried  in  the  vaults 
of  the  church.  His  body  afterwards  was  re 
moved  to  the  convent  of  the  Paraclet,  at  the 
request  of  Heloi'se,  and  at  her  death  her  own 
was  deposited  in  the  same  tomb.  Three  cen 
turies  they  reposed  together  ;  after  which  they 
were  separated  to  different  sides  of  the  church, 
to  calm  the  delicate  scruples  of  the  lady-abbess 
of  the  convent.  More  than  a  century  after 
ward,  they  were  again  united  in  the  same  tomb ; 
and  when  at  length  the  Paraclet  was  destroyed, 
these  mouldering  remains  were  transported 
to  the  church  of  Nogent-sur-Seine.  They 
were  next  deposited  in  an  ancient  cloister  at 
Paris  ;  and  now  repose  near  the  gateway  of 
the  cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise.  What  a  sin 
gular  destiny  was  theirs !  that,  after  a  life  of 


Pere  la  Chaise  81 

such  passionate  and  disastrous  love,  —  such 
sorrows,  and  tears,  and  penitence,  —  their  very 
dust  should  not  be  suffered  to  rest  quietly  in 
the  grave  !  —  that  their  death  should  so  much 
resemble  their  life  in  its  changes  and  vicissi 
tudes,  its  partings  and  its  meetings,  its  inquie 
tudes  and  its  persecutions  !  —  that  mistaken 
zeal  should  follow  them  down  to  the  very 
tomb,  —  as  if  earthly  passion  could  glimmer, 
like  a  funeral  lamp,  amid  the  damps  of  the 
charnel-house,  and  "  even  in  their  ashes  burn 
their  wonted  fires  !  " 

As  I  gazed  on  the  sculptured  forms  before 
me,  and  the  little  chapel,  whose  Gothic  roof 
seemed  to  protect  their  marble  sleep,  my  busy 
memory  swung  back  the  dark  portals  of  the 
past,  and  the  picture  of  their  sad  and  eventful 
lives  came  up  before  me  in  the  gloomy  dis 
tance.  What  a  lesson  for  those  who  are  en 
dowed  with  the  fatal  gift  of  genius  !  It  would 
seem,  indeed,  that  He  who  "  tempers  the  wind 
to  the  shorn  lamb  "  tempers  also  his  chastise 
ments  to  the  errors  and  infirmities  of  a  weak 
and  simple  mind, —  while  the  transgressions 
of  him  upon  whose  nature  are  more  strongly 
marked  the  intellectual  attributes  of  the  Deity 
are  followed,  even  upon  earth,  by  severer  to- 
4»  F 


82  Pere  la  Chaise 

kens  of  the  Divine  displeasure.  He  who  sins 
in  the  darkness  of  a  benighted  intellect  sees 
not  so  clearly,  through  the  shadows  that  sur 
round  him,  the  countenance  of  an  offended 
God  ;  but  he  who  sins  in  the  broad  noonday 
of  a  clear  and  radiant  mind,  when  at  length 
the  delirium  of  passion  has  subsided,  and  the 
cloud  flits  away  from  before  the  sun,  trem 
bles  beneath  the  searching  eye  of  that  accus 
ing  power  which  is  strong  in  the  strength 
of  a  godlike  intellect.  Thus  the  mind  and 
the  heart  are  closely  linked  together,  and  the 
errors  of  genius  bear  with  them  their  own 
chastisement,  even  upon  earth.  x  The  history 
of  Abelard  and  Helolse  is  an  illustration  of 
this  truth.  But  at  length  they  sleep  well. 
Their  lives  are  like  a  tale  that  is  told  ;  their 
errors  are  "  folded  up  like  a  book  " ;  and  what 
mortal  hand  shall  break  the  seal  that  death  has 
set  upon  them  ? 

Leaving  this  interesting  tomb  behind  me,  I 
took  a  pathway  to  the  left,  which  conducted 
me  up  the  hill-side.  I  soon  found  myself  in 
the  deep  shade  of  heavy  foliage,  where  the 
branches  of  the  yew  and  willow  mingled,  inter 
woven  with  the  tendrils  and  blossoms  of  the 
honeysuckle.  I  now  stood  in  the  most  popu- 


Pere  la  Chaise  83 

lous  part  of  this  city  of  tombs.  Every  step 
awakened  a  new  train  of  thrilling  recollec 
tions  ;  for  at  every  step  my  eye  caught  the 
name  of  some  one  whose  glory  had  exalted 
the  character  of  his  native  land,  and  resound 
ed  across  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic.  Philos 
ophers,  historians,  musicians,  warriors,  and 
poets  slept  side  by  side  around  me  ;  some  be 
neath  the  gorgeous  monument,  and  some  be 
neath  the  simple  headstone.  But  the  political 
intrigue,  the  dream  of  science,  the  historical 
research,  the  ravishing  harmony  of  sound,  the 
tried  courage,  the  inspiration  of  the  lyre, — 
where  are  they  ?  With  the  living,  and  not 
with  the  dead  !  The  right  hand  has  lost  its 
cunning  in  the  grave  ;  but  the  soul,  whose 
high  volitions  it  obeyed,  still  lives  to  reproduce 
itself  in  ages  yet  to  come. 

Among  these  graves  of  genius  I  observed 
here  and  there  a  splendid  monument,  which 
had  been  raised  by  the  pride  of  family  over 
the  dust  of  men  who  could  lay  no  claim  either 
to  the  gratitude  or  remembrance  of  posterity. 
Their  presence  seemed  like  an  intrusion  into 
the  sanctuary  of  genius.  What  had  wealth  to 
do  there  ?  Why  should  it  crowd  the  dust  of 
the  great  ?  That  was  no  thoroughfare  of  busi- 


84  Pere  la  Chaise 

ness,  —  no  mart  of  gain !  There  were  no 
costly  banquets  there ;  no  silken  garments, 
nor  gaudy  liveries,  nor  obsequious  attendants  ! 
"  What  servants,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor,  "  shall 
we  have  to  wait  upon  us  in  the  grave  ?  what 
friends  to  visit  us  ?  what  officious  people  to 
cleanse  away  the  moist  and  unwholesome 
cloud  reflected  upon  our  faces  from  the  sides 
of  the  weeping  vaults,  which  are  the  longest 
weepers  for  our  funerals  ? "  ( Material  wealth 
gives  a  factitious  superiority  to  the  living,  but 
the  treasures  of  intellect  give  a  real  superiority 
to  the  dead  ;  and  the  rich  man,  who  would 
not  deign  to  walk  the  street  with  the  starving 
and  penniless  man  of  genius,  deems  it  an  hon 
or,  when  death  has  redeemed  the  fame  of  the 
neglected,  to  have  his  own  ashes  laid  beside 
him,  and  to  claim  with  him  the  silent  com 
panionship  of  the  grave. 

I  continued  my  walk  through  the  numerous 
winding  paths,  as  chance  or  curiosity  directed 
me.  Now  I  was  lost  in  a  little  green  hollow, 
overhung  with  thick-leaved  shrubbery,  and 
then  came  out  upon  an  elevation,  from  which, 
through  an  opening  in  the  trees,  the  eye 
caught  glimpses  of  the  city,  and  the  little 
esplanade,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  the 


Pere  la  Chaise  85 

poor  lie  buried.  There  poverty  hires  its 
grave,  and  takes  but  a  short  lease  of  the  nar 
row  house.  At  the  end  of  a  few  months,  or  at 
most  of  a  few  years,  the  tenant  is  dislodged  to 
give  place  to  another,  and  he  in  turn  to  a 
third.  "  Who,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
"  knows  the  fate  of  his  bones,  or  how  often  he 
is  to  be  buried  ?  Who  hath  the  oracle  of  his 
ashes,  or  whither  they  are  to  be  scattered  ? " 

Yet,  even  in  that  neglected  corner,  the  hand 
of  affection  had  been  busy  in  decorating  the 
hired  house.  Most  of  the  graves  were  sur 
rounded  with  a  slight  wooden  paling,  to  secure 
them  from  the  passing  footstep ;  there  was 
hardly  one  so  deserted  as  not  to  be  marked 
with  its  little  wooden  cross,  and  decorated 
with  a  garland  of  flowers  ;  and  here  and  there 
I  could  perceive  a  solitary  mourner,  clothed  in 
black,  stooping  to  plant  a  shrub  on  the  grave, 
or  sitting  in  motionless  sorrow  beside  it. 

As  I  passed  on,  amid  the  shadowy  avenues 
of  the  cemetery,  I  could  not  help  comparing 
my  own  impressions  with  those  which  others 
have  felt  when  walking  alone  among  the 
dwellings  of  the  dead.  Are,  then,  the  sculp 
tured  urn  and  storied  monument  nothing 
more  than  symbols  of  family  pride  ?  Is  all  I 


86  Pere  la  Chaise 

see  around  me  a  memorial  of  the  living  more 
than  of  the  dead,  —  an  empty  show  of  sorrow, 
which  thus  vaunts  itself  in  mournful  pageant 
and  funeral  parade  ?  Is  it  indeed  true,  as 
some  have  said,  that  the  simple  wild-flower, 
which  springs  spontaneously  upon  the  grave, 
and  the  rose,  which  the  hand  of  affection 
plants  there,  are  fitter  objects  wherewith  to 
adorn  the  narrow  house  ?  No  !  I  feel  that 
it  is  not  so !  I  Let  the  good  and  the  great  be 
honored  even  in  the  grave.  Let  the  sculp 
tured  marble  direct  our  footsteps  to  the  scene 
of  their  long  sleep  ;  let  the  chiselled  epitaph 
repeat  their  names,  and  tell  us  where  repose 
the  nobly  good  and  wise !  '  It  is  not  true  that 
all  are  equal  in  the  grave.  There  is  no  equal 
ity  even  there.  )  The  mere  handful  of  dust  and 
ashes,  —  the  mere  distinction  of  prince  and 
beggar,  —  of  a  rich  winding-sheet  and  a 
shroudless  burial,  —  of  a  solitary  grave  and 
a  family  vault,  —  were  this  all,  —  then,  indeed, 
it  would  be  true  that  death  is  a  common  lev 
eller.  Such  paltry  distinctions  as  those  of 
wealth  and  poverty  are  soon  levelled  by  the 
spade  and  mattock  ;  the  damp  breath  of  the 
grave  blots  them  out  forever.  But  there  are 
other  distinctions  which  even  the  mace  of 


Pere  la  Chaise  87 

death  cannot  level  or  obliterate.  Can  it  break 
down  the  distinction  of  virtue  and  vice  ? 
Can  it  confound  the  good  with  the  bad  ?  the 
noble  with  the  base  ?  all  that  is  truly  great, 
and  pure,  and  godlike,  with  all  that  is  scorned, 
and  sinful,  and  degraded  ?  No  !  Then  death 
is  not  a  common  leveller !  Are  all  alike  be 
loved  in  death  and  honored  in  their  burial  ? 
Is  that  ground  holy  where  the  bloody  hand  of 
the  murderer  sleeps  from  crime  ?  Does  every 
grave  awaken  the  same  emotions  in  our 
hearts  ?  and  do  the  footsteps  of  the  stranger 
pause  as  long  beside  each  funeral-stone  ? 
No !  Then  all  are  not  equal  in  the  grave ! 
And  as  long  as  the  good  and  evil  deeds  of 
men  live  after  them,  so  long  will  there  be  dis 
tinctions  even  in  the  grave.  The  superiority 
of  one  over  another  is  in  the  nobler  and  bet 
ter  emotions  which  it  excites  ;  in  its  more  fer 
vent  admonitions  to  virtue ;  in  the  livelier  rec 
ollections  which  it  awakens  of  the  good  and 
the  great,  whose  bodies  are  crumbling  to  dust 
beneath  our  feet ! 

If,  then,  there  are  distinctions  in  the  grave, 
surely  it  is  not  unwise  to  designate  them  by 
the  external  marks  of  honor.  These  out 
ward  appliances  and  memorials  of  respect, — • 


88  Pere  la  Chaise 

the  mournful  urn,  —  the  sculptured  bust,  — 
the  epitaph  eloquent  in  praise,  —  cannot  in 
deed  create  these  distinctions,  but  they  serve 
to  mark  them.  It  is  only  when  pride  or 
wealth  builds  them  to  honor  the  slave  of 
mammon  or  the  slave  of  appetite,  when  the 
voice  from  the  grave  rebukes  the  false  and 
pompous  epitaph,  and  the  dust  and  ashes  of 
the  tomb  seem  struggling  to  maintain  the  su 
periority  of  mere  worldly  rank,  and  to  carry 
into  the  grave  the  bawbles  of  earthly  van 
ity,  —  it  is  then,  and  then  only,  that  we  feel 
how  utterly  worthless  are  all  the  devices  of 
sculpture,  and  the  empty  pomp  of  monumental 
brass  ! 

After  rambling  leisurely  about  for  some 
time,  reading  the  inscriptions  on  the  various 
monuments  which  attracted  my  curiosity,  and 
giving  way  to  the  different  reflections  they 
suggested,  I  sat  down  to  rest  myself  on  a 
sunken  tombstone.  A  winding  gravel-walk, 
overshaded  by  an  avenue  of  trees,  and  lined 
on  both  sides  with  richly  sculptured  monu 
ments,  had  gradually  conducted  me  to  the 
summit  of  the  hill,  upon  whose  slope  the  cem 
etery  stands.  Beneath  me  in  the  distance, 
and  dim-discovered  through  the  misty  and. 


Pere  la  Chaise  89 

smoky  atmosphere  of  evening,  rose  the  count 
less  roofs  and  spires  of  the  city.  Beyond, 
throwing  his  level  rays  athwart  the  dusky 
landscape,  sank  the  broad  red  sun.  The  dis 
tant  murmur  of  the  city  rose  upon  my  ear  ; 
and  the  toll  of  the  evening  bell  came  up,  min 
gled  with  the  rattle  of  the  paved  street  and 
the  confused  sounds  of  labor.  What  an  hour 
for  meditation  !  What  a  contrast  between  the 
metropolis  of  the  living  and  the  metropolis  of 
the  dead  !  I  could  not  help  calling  to  my 
mind  that  allegory  of  mortality,  written  by 
a  hand  which  has  been  many  a  long  year 
cold  :  — 

"Earth  goeth  upon  earth  as  man  upon  mould, 
Like  as  earth  upon  earth  never  go  should, 
Earth  goeth  upon  earth  as  glistening  gold, 
And  yet  shall  earth  unto  earth  rather  than  he  would. 

"Lo,  earth  on  earth,  consider  thou  may, 
How  earth  cometh  to  earth  naked  alway, 
Why  shall  earth  upon  earth  go  stout  or  gay, 
Since  earth  out  of  earth  shall  pass  in  poor  array. "  * 


*  I  subjoin  this  relic  of  old  English  verse  entire,  and  in  its 
antiquated  language,  for  those  of  my  readers  who  may  have 
an  antiquarian  taste.  It  is  copied  from  a  book  whose  title  I 
have  forgotten,  and  of  which  I  have  but  a  single  leaf,  contain 
ing  the  poem.  In  describing  the  antiquities  of  the  church  of 


90  Pere  la  Chaise 

Before  I  left  the  graveyard  the  shades  of 
evening  had  fallen,  and  the  objects  around  me 
grown  dim  and  indistinct.  As  I  passed  the 
gateway,  I  turned  to  take  a  parting  look.  I 
could  distinguish  only  the  chapel  on  the  sum- 

Stratford-upon-Avon,  the  writer  gives  the  following  account 
of  a  very  old  painting  upon  the  wall,  and  of  the  poem  which 
served  as  its  motto.  The  painting  is  no  longer  visible,  hav 
ing  been  effaced  in  repairing  the  church. 

"Against  the  west  wall  of  the  nave,  on  the  south  side  of 
the  arch,  was  painted  the  martyrdom  of  Thomas-a-Becket, 
while  kneeling  at  the  altar  of  St.  Benedict  in  Canterbury  ca 
thedral  ;  below  this  was  the  figure  of  an  angel,  probably  St. 
Michael,  supporting  a  long  scroll,  upon  which  were  seven 
stanzas  in  old  English,  being  an  allegory  of  mortality  :  — 

"  Erthe  oute  of  Erthe  ys  wondurly  wroght 
Erth  hath  gotyn  uppon  erth  a  dygnyte  of  noght 
Erth  ypon  erth  hath  sett  all  hys  thowht 
How  erth  apon  erth  may  be  hey  browght 

"  Erth  apon  erth  wold  be  a  kyng 
But  how  that  erth  gott  to  erth  he  thyngkys  nothyng 
When  erth  byddys  erth  hys  rentys  whom  bryng 
Then  schall  erth  apon  erth  have  a  hard  ptyng 


"  Erth  goth  apon  erth  as  man  apon  mowld 
Lyke  as  erth  apon  erth  never  goo  schold 


Pere  la  Chaise  91 

mit  of  the  hill,  and  here  and  there  a  lofty  ob 
elisk  of  snow-white  marble,  rising  from  the 
black  and  heavy  mass  of  foliage  around,  and 
pointing  upward  to  the  gleam  of  the  departed 
sun,  that  still  lingered  in  the  sky,  and  mingled 
with  the  soft  starlight  of  a  summer  evening. 


"  Why  that  erth  loveth  erth  wondur  me  thynke 
Or  why  that  erth  wold  for  erth  other  swett  or  swynke 
When  erth  apon  erth  ys  broght  wt.yn  the  brynke 
Then  schall  erth  apon  erth  have  a  fowll  stynke 

"  Lo  erth  on  erth  consedur  thow  may 
How  erth  comyth  to  erth  nakyd  all  way 
Why  schall  erth  apon  erth  goo  stowte  or  gay 
Seth  erth  owt  of  erth  schall  passe  yn  poor  aray 

"  I  counsill  erth  apon  erth  that  ys  wondurly  wrogt 
The  whyl  yt.  erth  ys  apon  erth  to  torne  hys  thowht 
And  pray  to  god  upon  erth  yt.  all  erth  wroght 
That  all  crystyn  soullys  to  ye.  blys  may  be  broght 

"  Beneath  were  two  men,  holding  a  scroll  over  a  body 
wrapped  in  a  winding-sheet,  and  covered  with  some  emblem* 
of  mortality,"  &c 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE 


fe  ne  consols  qu'une  maniere  de  voyager  plus  agreable  que  d'aller  i 
,  Jieval;  c'est  d'aller  ;'i  pied*  On  part  i  son  moment,  on  s'arrfete  4  sa  vo- 
lonte,  on  fait  tant  et  si  peu  d'exercise  qu'on  veut. 

Quand  on  ne  veut  qu'arriver,  on  peut  courir  ^n  chaise  de  poste ;  mais 
quand  on  veut  voyager,  il  faut  aller  a  pied. 

ROUSSEAU- 


IN  the  beautiful  month  of  October,^  made 
a  foot  excursion  along  the  banks  of  the 
Loire,  from  Orleans  to  Tours.  This  luxuriant 
region  is  justly  called  the  garden  of  France. 
From  Orleans  to  Blois,  the  whole  valley  of  the 
Loire  is  one  continued  vineyard.  The  bright 
green  foliage  of  the  vine  spreads,  like  the  un 
dulations  of  the  sea,  over  all  the  landscape, 
with  here  and  there  a  silver  flash  of  the  river, 
a  sequestered  hamlet,  or  the  towers  of  an  old 
chateau,  to  enliven  and  variegate  the  scene. 

The  vintage  had  already  commenced.  The 
peasantry  were  busy  in  the  fields,  —  the  song 
that  cheered  their  labor  was  on  the  breeze,  and 
the  heavy  wagon  tottered  by,  laden  with  the 
clusters  of  the  vine.  Everything  around  me 
wore  that  happy  look  which  makes  the  heart 


The   Valley  of  the  Loire          93 

glad.  In  the  morning  I  arose  with  the  lark  ; 
and  at  night  I  slept  where  sunset  overtook  me. 
The  healthy  exercise  of  foot-travelling,  the 
pure,  bracing  air  of  autumn,  and  the  cheerful 
aspect  of  the  whole  landscape  about  me,  gave 
fresh  elasticity  to  a  mind  not  overburdened 
with  care,  and  made  me  forget  not  only  the 
fatigue  of  walking,  but  also  the  consciousness 
of  being  alone. 

My  first  day's  journey  brought  me  at  even' 
ing  to  a  village,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten, 
situated  about  eight  leagues  from  Orleans.  It 
is  a  small,  obscure  hamlet,  not  mentioned  in 
the  guide-book,  and  stands  upon  the  precip 
itous  banks  of  a  deep  ravine,  through  which  a 
noisy  brook  leaps  down  to  turn  the  ponderous 
wheel  of  a  thatch-roofed  mill.  The  village 
inn  stands  upon  the  highway ;  but  the  village 
itself  is  not  visible  to  the  traveller  as  he  passes. 
It  is  completely  hidden  in  the  lap  of  a  wooded 
valley,  and  so  embowered  in  trees  that  not  a 
roof  nor  a  chimney  peeps  out  to  betray  its 
hiding-place.  It  is  like  the  nest  of  a  ground- 
swallow,  which  the  passing  footstep  almost 
treads  upon,  and  yet  it  is  not  seen.  I  passed 
by  without  suspecting  that  a  village  was  near ; 
and  the  little  inn  had  a  look  so  uninviting  that 
I  did  not  even  enter  it. 


94  The   Valley  of  the  Loire 

After  proceeding  a  mile  or  two  farther,  I  per 
ceived,  upon  my  left,  a  village  spire  rising  over 
the  vineyards.  Towards  this  I  directed  my 
footsteps  ;  but  it  seemed  to  recede  as  I  ad 
vanced,  and  at  last  quite  disappeared.  It  was 
evidently  many  miles  distant ;  and  as  the  path 
I  followed  descended  from  the  highway,  it  had 
gradually  sunk  beneath  a  swell  of  the  vine- 
clad  landscape.  I  now  found  myself  in  the 
midst  of  an  extensive  vineyard.  It  was  just 
sun§et ;  and  the  last  golden  rays  lingered  on 
the  rich  and  mellow  scenery  around  me.  The 
peasantry  were  still  busy  at  their  task ;  and 
the  occasional  bark  of  a  dog,  and  the  distant 
sound  of  an  evening  bell,  gave  fresh  romance 
to  the  scene.  The  reality  of  many  a  day 
dream  of  childhood,  of  many  a  poetic  revery 
of  youth,  was  before  me.  I  stood  at  sunset 
amid  the  luxuriant  vineyards  of  France  ! 

The  first  person  I  met  was  a  poor  old  wo 
man,  a  little  bowed  down  with  age,  gathering 
grapes  into  a  large  basket.  She  was  dressed 
like  the  poorest  class  of  peasantry,  and  pur 
sued  her  solitary  task  alone,  heedless  of  the 
cheerful  gossip  and  the  merry  laugh  which 
came  from  a  band  of  more  youthful  vintagers 
at  a  short  distance  from  her.  She  was  so  in- 


The   Valley  of  the  Loire          95 

tently  engaged  in  her  work,  that  she  did  not 
perceive  my  approach  until  I  bade  her  good 
evening.  On  hearing  my  voice,  she  looked  up 
from  her  labor,  and  returned  the  salutation  ; 
and,  on  my  asking  her  if  there  were  a  tavern 
or  a  farm-house  in  the  neighborhood  where  I 
could  pass  the  night,  she  showed  me  the  path 
way  through  the  vineyard  that  led  to  the  vil 
lage,  and  then  added,  with  a  look  of  curi 
osity,  — 

"  You  must  be  a  stranger,  sir,  in  these 
parts." 

"  Yes  ;  my  home  is  very  far  from  here." 

"  How  far  ?  " 

"  More  than  a  thousand  leagues." 

The  old  woman  looked  incredulous. 

"  I  came  from  a  distant  land  beyond  the 
sea." 

"  More  than  a  thousand  leagues  ! "  at  length 
repeated  she  ;  "  and  why  have  you  come  so 
far  from  home  ?" 

"  To  travel ;  —  to  see  how  you  live  in  this 
country." 

"  Have  you  no  relations  in  your  own  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  both  brothers  and  sisters,  A 
father  and  —  " 

"And  a  mother?" 


96          The   Valley  of  the  Loire 

"  Thank  Heaven,  I  have." 

"  And  did  you  leave  her  ?  " 

Here  the  old  woman  gave  me  a  piercing 
look  of  reproof;  shook  her  head  mournfully, 
and,  with  a  deep  sigh,  as  if  some  painful  recol 
lections  had  been  awakened  in  her  bosom, 
turned  again  to  her  solitary  task.  I  felt  re 
buked  ;  for  there  is  something  almost  pro 
phetic  in  the  admonitions  of  the  old.  The 
eye  of  age  looks  meekly  into  my  heart !  the 
voice  of  age  echoes  mournfully  through  it !  the 
hoary  head  and  palsied  hand  of  age  plead  irre 
sistibly  for  its  sympathies !  I  venerate  old 
age  ;  and  I  love  not  the  man  who  can  look 
without  emotion  upon  the  sunset  of  life,  when 
the  dusk  of  evening  begins  to  gather  over  the 
watery  eye,  and  the  shadows  of  twilight  grow 
broader  and  deeper  upon  the  understanding ! 

I  pursued  the  pathway  which  led  towards 
the  village,  and  the  next  person  I  encountered 
was  an  old  man,  stretched  lazily  beneath  the 
vines  upon  a  little  strip  of  turf,  at  a  point 
where  four  paths  met,  forming  a  cross  way  in 
the  vineyard.  He  was  clad  in  a  coarse  garb 
of  gray,  with  a  pair  of  long  gaiters  or  spatter 
dashes.  Beside  him  lay  a  blue  cloth-cap,  a 
staff,  and  an  old  weather-beaten  knapsack.  I 


The   Valley  of  the  Loire  97 

saw  at  once  that  he  was  a  foot-traveller  like 
myself,  and  therefore,  without  more  ado,  en 
tered  into  conversation  with  him.  From  his 
language,  and  the  peculiar  manner  in  which 
he  now  and  then  wiped  his  upper  lip  with  the 
back  of  his  hand,  as  if  in  search  of  the  mus 
tache  which  was  no  longer  there,  I  judged 
that  he  had  been  a  soldier.  In  this  opinion 
I  was  not  mistaken.  He  had  served  under 
Napoleon,  and  had  followed  the  imperial  eagle 
across  the  Alps,  and  the  Pyrenees,  and  the 
burning  sands  of  Egypt.  Like  every  meille 
moustache,  he  spake  with  enthusiasm  of  the 
Little  Corporal,  and  cursed  the  English,  the 
Germans,  the  Spanish,  and  every  other  race 
on  earth,  except  the  Great  Nation,  —  his  own. 

"  I  like,"  said  he,  "after  a  long  day's  march, 
to  lie  down  in  this  way  upon  the  grass,  and 
enjoy  the  cool  of  the  evening.  It  reminds  me 
of  the  bivouacs  of  other  days,  and  of  old 
friends  who  are  now  up  there." 

Here  he  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  sky. 

"  They  have  reached  the  last  etape  before 
me,  in  the  long  march.  But  I  shall  go  soon. 
We  shall  all  meet  again  at  the  last  roll-call. 
Sacrt*  nom  de !  There  's  a  tear  ! " 

He  wiped  it  away  with  his  sleeve. 

5  G 


98  The   Valley  of  the  Loire 

Here  our  colloquy  was  interrupted  by  the 
approach  of  a  group  of  vintagers,  who  were  re 
turning  homeward  from  their  labor.  To  this 
party  I  joined  myself,  and  invited  the  old  sol 
dier  to  do  the  same  ;  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  thank  you  ;  my  pathway  lies  in  a  dif 
ferent  direction." 

"  But  there  is  no  other  village  near,  and  the 
sun  has  already  set." 

"  No  matter,  I  am  used  to  sleeping  on  the 
ground.  Good  night." 

I  left  the  old  man  to  his  meditations,  and 
walked  on  in  company  with  the  vintagers. 
Following  a  well-trodden  pathway  through  the 
vineyards,  we  soon  descended  the  valley's  slope, 
and  I  suddenly  found  myself  in  the  bosom 
of  one  of  those  little  hamlets  from  which 
the  laborer  rises  to  his  toil  as  the  skylark  to 
his  song.  My  companions  wished  me  a  good 
night,  as  each  entered  his  own  thatch-roofed 
cottage,  and  a  little  girl  led  me  out  to  the  very 
inn  which  an  hour  or  two  before  I  had  dis 
dained  to  enter. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  a  brilliant 
autumnal  sun  was  shining  in  at  my  window. 
The  merry  song  of  birds  mingled  sweetly  with 
lie  sound  of  rustling  leaves  and  the  gurgle  of 


The   Valley  of  the  Loire          99 

the  brook.  The  vintagers  were  going  forth  to 
their  toil  ;  the  wine-press  was  busy  in  the 
shade,  and  the  clatter  of  the  mill  kept  time  to 
the  miller's  song.  I  loitered  about  the  village 
with  a  feeling  of  calm  delight.  I  was  unwill 
ing  to  leave  the  seclusion  of  this  sequestered 
hamlet ;  but  at  length,  with  reluctant  step,  I 
took  the  cross-road  through  the  vineyard,  and 
in  a  moment  the  little  village  had  sunk  again, 
as  if  by  enchantment,  into  the  bosom  of  the 
earth. 

I  breakfasted  at  the  town  of  Mer  ;  and, 
leaving  the  high-road  to  Blois  on  the  right, 
passed  down  to  the  banks  of  the  Loire, 
through  a  long,  broad  avenue  of  poplars  and 
sycamores.  I  crossed  the  river  in  a  boat, 
and  in  the  after  part  of  the  day  I  found  my 
self  before  the  high  and  massive  walls  of  the 
chateau  of  Chambord.  This  chateau  is  one 
of  the  finest  specimens  of  the  ancient  Gothic 
castle  to  be  found  in  Europe.  The  little  river 
Cosson  fills  its  deep  and  ample  moat,  and 
above  it  the  huge  towers  and  heavy  battle 
ments  rise  in  stern  and  solemn  grandeur, 
moss-grown  with  age,  and  blackened  by  the 
storms  of  three  centuries.  Within,  all  is 
mournful  and  deserted.  The  grass  has  over- 


ioo        The   Valley  of  the  Loire 

grown  the  pavement  of  the  courtyard,  and 
the  rude  sculpture  upon  the  walls  is  broken 
and  defaced.  From  the  courtyard  I  entered 
the  central  tower,  and,  ascending  the  principal 
staircase,  went  out  upon  the  battlements.  I 
seemed  to  have  stepped  back  into  the  pre 
cincts  of  the  feudal  ages  ;  and,  as  I  passed 
along  through  echoing  corridors,  and  vast,  de 
serted  halls,  stripped  of  their  furniture,  and 
mouldering  silently  away,  the  distant  past 
came  back  upon  me  ;  and  the  times  when  the 
clang  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  mail-clad  men, 
and  the  sounds  of  music  and  revelry  and  was 
sail,  echoed  along  those  high-vaulted  and  soli 
tary  chambers ! 

My  third  day's  journey  brought  me  to  the 
ancient  city  of  Blois,  the  chief  town  of  the  de 
partment  of  Loire-et-Cher.  This  city  is  cel 
ebrated  for  the  purity  with  which  even  the 
lower  classes  of  its  inhabitants  speak  their  na 
tive  tongue.  It  rises  precipitously  from  the 
northern  bank  of  the  Loire ;  and  many  of  its 
streets  are  so  steep  as  to  be  almost  impassable 
for  carriages.  On  the  brow  of  the  hill,  over 
looking  the  roofs  of  the  city,  and  commanding 
a  fine  view  of  the  Loire  and  its  noble  bridge, 
and  the  surrounding  country,  sprinkled  with 


The   Valley  of  the  Loire         101 

eottages  and  chateaux,  runs  an  ample  terrace, 
planted  with  trees,  and  laid  out  as  a  public 
walk.  The  view  from  this  terrace  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  in  France.  But  what  most 
strikes  the  eye  of  the  traveller  at  Blois  is  an 
old,  though  still  unfinished,  castle.  Its  huge 
parapets  of  hewn  stone  stand  upon  either 
side  of  the  street ;  but  they  have  walled  up 
the  wide  gateway,  from  which  the  colossal 
drawbridge  was  to  have  sprung  high  in  air, 
connecting  together  the  main  towers  of  the 
building,  and  the  two  hills  upon  whose  slope 
its  foundations  stand.  The  aspect  of  this  vast 
pile  is  gloomy  and  desolate.  It  seems  as  if 
the  strong  hand  of  the  builder  had  been  ar 
rested  in  the  midst  of  his  task  by  the  stronger 
hand  of  death ;  and  the  unfinished  fabric 
stands  a  lasting  monument  both  of  the  power 
and  weakness  of  man,  —  of  his  vast  desires, 
his  sanguine  hopes,  his  ambitious  purposes,  — 
and  of  the  unlooked-for  conclusion,  where  all 
these  desires,  and  hopes,  and  purposes  are  so 
often  arrested.  There  is  also  at  Blois  another 
ancient  chateau,  to  which  some  historic  inter 
est  is  attached,  as  being  the  scene  of  the  mas 
sacre  of  the  Duke  of  Guise. 

On  the  following  day,  I  left  Blois  for  Am- 


The   Valley  of  the  Loire 

boise ;  and,  after  walking  several  leagues 
along  the  dusty  highway,  crossed  the  river  in 
a  boat  to  the  little  village  of  Moines,  which 
lies  amid  luxuriant  vineyards  upon  the  south 
ern  bank  of  the  Loire.  From  Moines  to 
Amboise  the  road  is  truly  delightful.  The 
rich  lowland  scenery,  by  the  margin  of  the 
river,  is  verdant  even  in  October  ;  and  oc 
casionally  the  landscape  is  diversified  with  the 
picturesque  cottages  of  the  vintagers,  cut  in 
the  rock  along  the  roadside,  and  overhung  by 
the  thick  foliage  of  the  vines  above  them. 

At  Amboise  I  took  a  cross-road,  which  led 
me  to  the  romantic  borders  of  the  Cher  and 
the  chateau  of  Chenonceau.  This  beautiful 
chateau,  as  well  as  that  of  Chambord,  was 
built  by  the  gay  and  munificent  Francis  the 
First.  One  is  a  specimen  of  strong  and  mas 
sive  architecture,  —  a  dwelling  for  a  warrior  ; 
but  the  other  is  of  a  lighter  and  more  graceful 
construction,  and  was  destined  for  those  soft 
languishments  of  passion  with  which  the  fas 
cinating  Diane  de  Poitiers  had  filled  the  bosom 
of  that  voluptuous  monarch. 

The  chateau  of  Chenonceau  is  built  upon 
arches  across  the  river  Cher,  whose  waters  are 
made  to  supply  the  deep  moat  at  each  extrem- 


The   Valley  of  the  Loire         103 

ity.  There  is  a  spacious  courtyard  in  front, 
from  which  a  drawbridge  conducts  to  the 
outer  hall  of  the  castle.  There  the  armor 
of  Francis  the  First  still  hangs  upon  the 
wall,  —  his  shield,  and  helm,  and  lance,  —  as 
if  the  chivalrous  prince  had  just  exchanged 
them  for  the  silken  robes  of  the  drawing-room. 
From  this  hall  a  door  opens  into  a  long  gal 
lery,  extending  the  whole  length  of  the  build 
ing  across  the  Cher.  The  walls  of  the  gallery 
are  hung  with  the  faded  portraits  of  the  long 
line  of  the  descendants  of  Hugh  Capet ;  and 
the  windows,  looking  up  and  down  the  stream, 
command  a  fine  reach  of  pleasant  river  scen 
ery.  This  is  said  to  be  the  only  chateau  in 
France  in  which  the  ancient  furniture  of  its 
original  age  is  preserved.  In  one  part  of  the 
building,  you  are  shown  the  bed-chamber  of 
Diane  de  Poitiers,  with  its  antique  chairs  cov 
ered  with  faded  damask  and  embroidery,  her 
bed,  and  a  portrait  of  the  royal  favorite  hang 
ing  over  the  mantelpiece.  In  another  you  see 
the  apartment  of  the  infamous  Catherine  de' 
Medici ;  a  venerable  arm-chair  and  an  auto 
graph  letter  of  Henry  the  Fourth ;  and  in  an 
old  laboratory,  among  broken  crucibles,  and 
neckless  retorts,  and  drums,  and  trumpets,  and 


IO4        The   Valley  of  the  Loire 

skins  of  wild  beasts,  and  other  ancient  lumber, 
of  various  kinds,  are  to  be  seen  the  bed-posts 
of  Francis  the  First !  Doubtless  the  naked 
walls  and  the  vast  solitary  chambers  of  an  old 
and  desolate  chateau  inspire  a  feeling  of  great 
er  solemnity  and  awe  ;  but  when  the  antique 
furniture  of  the  olden  time  remains,  —  the 
faded  tapestry  on  the  walls,  and  the  arm-chair 
by  the  fireside,  —  the  effect  upon  the  mind  is 
more  magical  and  delightful.  The  old  inhab 
itants  of  the  place,  long  gathered  to  their 
fathers,  though  living  still  in  history,  seem  to 
have  left  their  halls  for  the  chase  or  the  tour 
nament  ;  and  as  the  heavy  door  swings  upon 
its  reluctant  hinge,  one  almost  expects  to  see 
the  gallant  princes  and  courtly  dames  enter 
those  halls  again,  and  sweep  in  stately  pro 
cession  along  the  silent  corridors. 

Rapt  in  such  fancies  as  these,  and  gazing 
on  the  beauties  of  this  noble  edifice,  and  the 
soft  scenery  around  it,  I  lingered,  unwilling  to 
depart,  till  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  stream 
ing  through  the  dusty  windows,  admonished 
me  that  the  day  was  drawing  rapidly  to  a 
close.  I  sallied  forth  from  the  southern  gate 
of  the  chateau,  and  crossing  the  broken  draw 
bridge,  pursued  a  pathway  along  the  bank  of 


The   Valley  of  the  Loire         105 

the  river,  still  gazing  back  upon  those  tow 
ering  walls,  now  bathed  in  the  rich  glow  of 
sunset,  till  a  turn  in  the  road  and  a  clump  of 
woodland  at  length  shut  them  out  from  my 
sight. 

A  short  time  after  candle-lighting,  I  reached 
the  little  tavern  of  the  Boule  d'Gr,  a  few 
leagues  from  Tours,  where  I  passed  the  night. 
The  following  morning  was  lowering  and  sad. 
A  veil  of  mist  hung  over  the  landscape,  and 
ever  and  anon  a  heavy  shower  burst  from  the 
overburdened  clouds,  that  were  driving  by  be 
fore  a  high  and  piercing  wind.  This  unpropi- 
tious  state  of  the  weather  detained  me  until 
noon,  when  a  cabriolet  for  Tours  drove  up  ;  and 
taking  a  seat  within  it,  I  left  the  hostess  of  the 
Boule  d'Or  in  thf  middle  of  a  long  story  about 
a  rich  countess,  who  always  alighted  there 
when  she  passed  that  way.  We  drove  leis 
urely  along  through  a  beautiful  country,  till  at 
length  we  came  to  the  brow  of  a  steep  hill, 
which  commands  a  fine  view  of  the  city  of 
Tours  and  its  delightful  environs.  But  the 
scene  was  shrouded  by  the  heavy  drifting  mist, 
through  which  I  could  trace  but  indistinctly 
the  graceful  sweep  of  the  Loire,  and  the  spires 
and  roofs  of  the  city  far  below  me. 


io6        The   Valley  of  the  Loire 

The  city  of  Tours  and  the  delicious  plain 
in  which  it  lies  have  been  too  often  described 
by  other  travellers  to  render  a  new  description, 
from  so  listless  a  pen  as  mine,  either  necessary 
or  desirable.  After  a  sojourn  of  two  cloudy 
and  melancholy  days,  I  set  out  on  my  return 
to  Paris,  by  the  way  of  Vendome  and  Chartres. 
I  stopped  a  few  hours  at  the  former  place,  to 
examine  the  ruins  of  a  chateau  built  by 
Jeanne  d'Albret,  mother  of  Henry  the  Fourth. 
It  stands  upon  the  summit  of  a  high  and  pre 
cipitous  hill,  and  almost  overhangs  the  town 
beneath.  The  French  Revolution  has  com 
pleted  the  ruin  that  time  had  already  begun  ; 
and  nothing  now  remains,  but  a  broken  and 
crumbling  bastion,  and  here  and  there  a  soli 
tary  tower  dropping  slowly  to  decay.  •  In  one 
of  these  is  the  grave  of  Jeanne  d'Albret.  A 
marble  entablature  in  the  wall  above  contains 
the  inscription,  which  is  nearly  effaced,  though 
enough  still  remains  to  tell  the  curious  trav 
eller  that  there  lies  buried  the  mother  of  the 
"  Bon  Henri."  To  this  is  added  a  prayer  that 
the  repose  of  the  dead  may  be  respected. 

Here  ended  my  foot  excursion.  The  object 
of  my  journey  was  accomplished  ;  and,  de 
lighted  with  this  short  ramble  through  the 


The   Valley  of  the  Loire         107 

valley  of  the  Loire,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  dili 
gence  for  Paris,  and  on  the  following  day  was 
again  swallowed  up  in  the  crowds  of  the  me 
tropolis,  like  a  drop  in  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 


THE    TROU VERES 


Quant  recommence  et  revient  biaux  estez, 

Que  foille  et  flor  resplendit  par  boschage, 
Que  li  froiz  tanz  de  1'hyver  est  passez, 
Et  cil  oisel  chantent  en  lor  langage, 
Lors  chanterai 
Et  envoisiez  serai 
De  cuer  verai. 

JAQUES  DE  CHISON. 

THE  literature  of  France  is  peculiarly  rich 
in  poetry  of  the  olden  time.  We  can 
trace  up  the  stream  of  song  until  it  is  lost  in 
the  deepening  shadows  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
Even  there  it  is  not  a  shallow  tinkling  rill ; 
but  it  comes  like  a  mountain  stream,  rushing 
and  sounding  onward  through  the  enchanted 
regions  of  romance,  and  mingles  its  voice  with 
the  tramp  of  steeds  and  the  brazen  sound  of 
arms. 

The  glorious  reign  of  Charlemagne,*  at  the 

*  The  following  amusing  description  of  this  Restorer  of  Let 
ters,  as  his  biographers  call  him,  is  taken  from  the  fabulous 
Chronicle  of  John  Turpin,  Chap.  XX. 

"The  Emperor  was  of  a  ruddy  complexion,  with  brown 
hair  ;  of  a  well-made,  handsome  form,  but  a  stern  visage 


The  Trouveres  109 

close  of  the  eighth  and  the  commencement  of 
the  ninth  century,  seems  to  have  breathed  a 
spirit  of  learning  as  well  as  of  chivalry 
throughout  all  France.  The  monarch  estab 
lished  schools  and  academies  in  different  parts 
of  his  realm,  and  took  delight  in  the  society 
and  conversation  of  learned  men.  It  is  amus 
ing  to  see  with  what  evident  self-satisfaction 
some  of  the  magi  whom  he  gathered  around 
him  speak  of  their  exertions  in  widening  the 
sphere  of  human  knowledge,  and  pouring  in 
light  upon  the  darkness  of  their  age.  "For 
some,"  says  Alcuin,  the  director  of  the  school 

His  height  was  about  eight  of  his  own  feet,  which  were  very 
long.  He  was  of  a  strong,  robust  make  ;  his  legs  and  thighs 
very  stout,  and  his  sinews  firm.  His  face  was  thirteen  inches 
long  ;  his  beard  a  palm  ;  his  nose  half  a  palm  ;  his  forehead  a 
foot  over.  His  lion-like  eyes  flashed  fire  like  carbuncles  ;  his 
eyebrows  were  half  a  palm  over.  When  he  was  angry,  it  was 
a  terror  to  look  upon  him.  He  required  eight  spans  for  his 
girdle  beside  what  hung  loose.  He  ate  sparingly  of  bread  ; 
but  a  whole  quarter  of  lamb,  two  fowls,  a  goose,  or  a  large 
portion  of  pork ;  a  peacock,  a  crane,  or  a  whole  hare.  He 
drank  moderately  of  wine  and  water.  He  was  so  strong 
that  he  could  at  a  single  blow  cleave  asunder  an  armed  sol 
dier  on  horseback,  from  the  head  to  the  waist,  and  the  horse 
likewise.  He  easily  vaulted  over  four  horses  harnessed  to 
gether  ;  and  could  raise  an  armed  man  from  the  ground  to  his 
head,  as  he  stood  erect  upon  his  hand. " 


no  The  Trouveres 

of  St.  Martin  de  Tours,  "  I  cause  the  honey 
of  the  Holy  Scriptures  to  flow;  I  intoxicate 
others  with  the  old  wine  of  ancient  history  ; 
these  I  nourish  with  the  fruits  of  grammar, 
gathered  by  my  own  hands  ;  and  those  I  en 
lighten  by  pointing  out  to  them  the  stars,  like 
lamps  attached  by  the  vaulted  ceiling  of  a 
great  palace!" 

Besides  this  classic  erudition  of  the  schools, 
the  age  had  also  its  popular  literature.  Those 
who  were  untaught  in  scholastic  wisdom  were 
learned  in  traditionary  lore  ;  for  they  had  their 
ballads,  in  which  were  described  the  valor  and 
achievements  of  the  early  kings  of  the  Franks. 
These  ballads,  of  which  a  collection  was  made 
by  order  of  Charlemagne,  animated  the  rude 
soldier  as  he  rushed  to  battle,  and  were  sung 
in  the  midnight  bivouacs  of  the  camp.  "  Per 
haps  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,"  observes  the 
literary  historian  Schlegel,  "that  we  have  still 
in  our  possession,  if  not  the  original  language 
and  form,  at  least  the  substance,  of  many  of 
those  ancient  poems  which  were  collected  by 
the  orders  of  that  prince  ;  —  I  refer  to  the 
Nibelungenlied,  and  the  collection  which  goes 
by  the  name  of  the  Heldenbuch." 

When  at  length  the  old  Tudesque  language, 


The  Trouveres  1 1 1 

which  was  the  court  language  of  Charlemagne, 
had  given  place  to  the  Langue  d'Oil,  the  north 
ern  dialect  of  the  French  Romance,  these  an 
cient  ballads  passed  from  the  memories  of  the 
descendants  of  the  Franks,  and  were  succeed 
ed  by  the  romances  of  Charlemagne  and  his 
Twelve  Peers,  —  of  Rowland,  and  Olivir,  and 
the  other  paladins  who  died  at  Roncesvalles. 
Robert  Wace,  a  Norman  Trouvere  of  the 
twelfth  century,  says  in  one  of  his  poems,  that 
a  minstrel  named  Taillefer,  mounted  on  a  swift 
horse,  went  in  front  of  the  Norman  army  at 
the  battle  of  Hastings,  singing  these  ancient 
poems. 

These  Chansons  de  Geste,  or  old  historic  ro 
mances  of  France,  are  epic  in  their  character, 
though,  without  doubt,  they  were  written  to  be 
chanted  to  the  sound  of  an  instrument.  To 
what  period  many  of  them  belong,  in  their 
present  form,  has  never  yet  been  fully  deter 
mined  ;  and  should  it  finally  be  proved  by  phil 
ological  research  that  they  can  claim  no  higher 
antiquity  than  the  twelfth  or  thirteenth  centu 
ry,  still  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  in  their 
original  form  many  of  them  reached  far  back 
into  the  ninth  or  tenth.  The  long  prevalent 
theory,  that  the  romances  of  the  Twelve  Peers 


1 1 2  The  Trouveres 

of  France  all  originated  in  the  fabulous  chroni 
cle  of  Charlemagne  and  Rowland,  written  by 
the  Archbishop  Turpin  in  the  twelfth  century, 
if  not  as  yet  generally  exploded,  is  nevertheless 
fast  losing  ground. 

To  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  also 
belong  most  of  the  Fabliaux,  or  metrical  tales 
of  the  Trouveres.  Many  of  these  composi 
tions  are  remarkable  for  the  inventive  talent 
they  display,  but  as  poems  they  have,  general 
ly  speaking,  little  merit,  and  at  times  exhibit 
such  a  want  of  refinement,  such  open  and  gross 
obscenity,  as  to  be  highly  offensive. 

It  is  a  remarkable  circumstance  in  the  liter 
ary  history  of  France,  that,  while  her  antiqua 
rians  and  scholars  have  devoted  themselves 
to  collecting  and  illustrating  the  poetry  of  the 
Troubadours,  the  early  lyric  poets  of  the  South, 
that  of  the  Trouveres,  or  Troubadours  of  the 
North,  has  been  almost  entirely  neglected.  By 
a  singular  fatality,  too,  what  little  time  and 
attention  have  hitherto  been  bestowed  upon 
the  fathers  of  French  poetry  have  been  so  di 
rected  as  to  save  from  oblivion  little  of  the 
most  valuable  portions  of  their  writings  ;  while 
the  more  tedious  and  worthless  parts  have 
been  brought  forth  to  the  public  eye,  as  if  to 


The  Trouveres  1 1 3 

deaden  curiosity,  and  put  an  end  to  further 
research.  The  ancient  historic  romances  of 
the  land  have,  for  the  most  part,  been  left  to 
slumber  unnoticed  ;  while  the  lewd  and  tire 
some  Fabliaux  have  been  ushered  into  the 
world  as  fair  specimens  of  the  ancient  poetry 
of  France.  This  has  created  unjust  prejudices 
in  the  minds  of  many  against  the  literature  of 
the  olden  time,  and  has  led  them  to  regard  it 
as  nothing  more  than  a  confused  mass  of 
coarse  and  vulgar  fictions,  adapted  to  a  rude 
and  inelegant  state  of  society. 

Of  late,  however,  a  more  discerning  judg 
ment  has  been  brought  to  the  difficult  task  of 
ancient  research  ;  and,  in  consequence  of  this, 
the  long-established  prejudices  against  the 
crumbling  monuments  of  the  national  litera 
ture  of  France  during  the  Middle  Ages  is  fast 
disappearing.  Several  learned  men  are  en 
gaged  in  rescuing  from  oblivion  the  ancient 
poetic  romances  of  Charlemagne  and  the 
Twelve  Peers  of  France,  and  their  labors 
seem  destined  to  throw  new  light,  not  only 
upon  the  state  of  literature,  but  upon  the  state 
of  society,  during  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries. 

Among  the  voluminous  remains  of  Trouba- 

H 


1 14  The  Trouveres 

dour  literature,  little  else  has  yet  been  discov 
ered  than  poems  of  a  lyric  character.  The 
lyre  of  the  Troubadour  seems  to  have  respond 
ed  to  the  impulse  of  momentary  feelings  only, 
—  to  the  touch  of  local  and  transitory  circum 
stances.  His  song  was  a  sudden  burst  of  ex 
cited  feeling  ;  —  it  ceased  when  the  passion 
was  subdued,  or  rather  when  its  first  feverish 
excitement  passed  away ;  and  as  the  liveliest 
feelings  are  the  most  transitory,  the  songs 
which  embodied  them  are  short,  but  full  of 
spirit  and  energy.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
great  mass  of  the  poetry  of  the  Trouveres  is  of 
a  narrative  or  epic  character.  The  genius  of 
the  North  seems  always  to  have  delighted  in 
romantic  fiction  ;  and  whether  we  attribute 
the  origin  of  modern  romance  to  the  Arabians 
or  to  the  Scandinavians,  this  at  least  is  cer 
tain  that  there  existed  marvellous  tales  in  the 
Northern  languages,  and  from  these,  in  part  at 
least,  the  Trouveres  imbibed  the  spirit  of  nar 
rative  poetry.  There  are  no  traces  of  lyric 
compositions  among  their  writings,  till  about 
the  commencement  of  the  thirteenth  century  ; 
and  it  seems  probable  that  the  spirit  of  song- 
writing  was  imbibed  from  the  Troubadours  of 
the  South. 


The  Trouveres  115 

Unfortunately,  the  neglect  which  has  so  long 
attended  the  old  historic  and  heroic  romances 
of  the  North  of  France  has  also  befallen  in 
some  degree  its  early  lyric  poetry.  Little  has 
yet  been  done  to  discover  and  bring  forth  its 
riches  ;  and  doubtless  many  a  sweet  little  bal 
lad  and  melancholy  complaint  lies  buried  in 
the  dust  of  the  thirteenth  century.  It  is  not, 
however,  my  object,  in  this  paper,  to  give  an 
historical  sketch  of  this  ancient  and  almost  for 
gotten  poetry,  but  simply  to  bring  forward  a 
few  specimens  which  shall  exhibit  its  most 
striking  and  obvious  characteristics. 

In  these  examples  it  would  be  in  vain  to 
look  for  high-wrought  expression  suited  to  the 
prevailing  taste  of  the  present  day.  Their 
most  striking  peculiarity,  and  perhaps  their 
greatest  merit,  consists  in  the  simple  and  di 
rect  expression  of  feeling  which  they  contain. 
This  feeling,  too,  is  one  which  breathes  the  lan 
guor  of  that  submissive  homage  which  was  paid 
to  beauty  in  the  days  of  chivalry ;  and  I  am 
aware,  that,  in  this  age  of  masculine  and  mat 
ter-of-fact  thinking,  the  love-conceits  of  a  more 
poetic  state  of  society  are  generally  looked  up 
on  as  extremely  trivial  and  puerile.  Neverthe 
less  I  shall  venture  to  present  one  or  two  of 


u6  The  Trouveres 

these  simple  poems,  which,  by  recalling  the 
distant  age  wherein  they  were  composed,  may 
peradventure  please  by  the  power  of  contrast. 

I  have  just  remarked  that  one  of  the  great 
est  beauties  of  these  ancient  ditties  is  natvett 
of  thought  and  simplicity  of  expression  These 
I  shall  endeavor  to  preserve  as  far  as  possible 
in  the  translation,  though  I  am  fully  conscious 
how  much  the  sparkling  beauty  of  an  original 
loses  in  being  filtered  through  the  idioms  of  a 
foreign  language. 

The  favorite  theme  of  the  ancient  lyric  poets 
of  the  North  of  France  is  the  wayward  passion 
of  love.  They  all  delight  to  sing  "  les  doiices 
dolors  et  li  mat  plaisant  de  fine  amor"  With 
such  feelings  the  beauties  of  the  opening  spring 
are  naturally  associated.  Almost  every  love- 
ditty  of  the  old  poets  commences  with  some 
such  exordium  as  this  :  —  "  When  the  snows  of 
winter  have  passed  away,  when  the  soft  and 
gentle  spring  returns,  and  the  flower  and  leaf 
shoot  in  the  groves,  and  the  little  birds  warble 
to  their  mates  in  their  own  sweet  language,  — 
then  will  I  sing  my  lady-love ! " 

Another  favorite  introduction  to  these  little 
rhapsodies  of  romantic  passion  is  the  approach 
of  morning  and  its  sweet-voiced  herald,  the 


The  Trouveres  1 1 7 

lark.  The  minstrel's  song  to  his  lady-love  fre 
quently  commences  with  an  allusion  to  the 
hour. 

"  When  the  rose-bud  opes  its  een, 

And  the  bluebells  droop  and  die, 
And  upon  the  leaves  so  green 
Sparkling  dew-drops  lie." 

The  following  is  at  once  the  simplest  and 
prettiest  piece  of  this  kind  which  I  have  met 
with  among  the  early  lyric  poets  of  the  North 
of  France.  It  is  taken  from  an  anonymous 
poem,  entitled  "The  Paradise  of  Love."  A 
lover,  having  passed  the  "  livelong  night  in 
tears,  as  he  was  wont,"  goes  forth  to  beguile 
his  sorrows  with  the  fragrance  and  beauty  of 
morning.  The  carol  of  the  vaulting  skylark 
salutes  his  ear,  and  to  this  merry  musician  he 
makes  his  complaint. 

"Hark!  hark! 

Pretty  lark ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain ! 
But  if  to  these  longing  arms 
Pitying  Love  would  yield  the  charms 

Of  the  fair 

With  smiling  air,  , 

Blithe  would  beat  my  heart  again. 

"  Hark  !  hark  ! 

Pretty  lark  ! 
Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  1 


n8  The  Trouveres 

Love  may  force  me  still  to  bear, 
While  he  lists,  consuming  care  ; 

But  in  anguish 

Though  I  languish, 
Faithful  shall  my  heart  remain. 

"  Hark  I  hark  ! 

Pretty  lark ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  ! 
Then  cease,  Love,  to  V>rment  me  so  ; 
But  rather  than  all  tnooghts  forego 

Of  the  fair 

With  flaxen  hair, 
Give  me  back  her  frowns  again. 

"  Hark  !  hark ! 

Pretty  lark ! 
Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  !  " 

Besides  the  "  woful  ballad  made  to  his  mi»« 
tress's  eyebrow,"  the  early  lyric  poet  frequent 
ly  indulges  in  more  calmly  analyzing  the 
philosophy  of  love,  or  in  questioning  the  ob 
ject  and  destination  of  a  sigh.  Occasionally 
these  quaint  conceits  are  prettily  expressed, 
and  the  little  song  flutters  through  the  page 
like  a  butterfly.  The  following  is  an  ex 
ample  :  — 

"  And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 
Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear? 
Say,  dost  thou  bear  his  fate  severe 
To  Love's  poor  martyr  doomed  to  die  ? 


The  Trouveres  119 

Come,  tell  me  quickly,  —  do  not  lie  ; 

What  secret  message  bring'st  thou  here? 
And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 

Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  ? 

•*  May  Heaven  conduct  thee  to  thy  will, 
And  safely  speed  thee  on  thy  way  ; 
This  only  I  would  humbly  pray,  — 

Pierce  deep,  —  but  O  !  forbear  to  kill. 

And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 
Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  ?  " 

The  ancient  lyric  poets  of  France  are  gen 
erally  jpoken  of  as  a  class,  and  their  beau 
ties  and  defects  referred  to  them  collectively, 
and  not  individually.  In  truth,  there  are  few 
characteristic  marks  by  which  any  individual 
author  can  be  singled  out  and  ranked  above 
the  rest.  The  lyric  poets  of  the  thirteenth 
and  fourteenth  centuries  stand  upon  nearly 
the  same  level.  But  in  the  fifteenth  century 
there  were  two  who  surpassed  all  their  con 
temporaries  in  the  beauty  and  delicacy  of 
their  sentiments ;  and  in  the  sweetness  of 
their  diction,  and  the  structure  of  their  verse, 
stand  far  in  advance  of  the  age  in  which  they 
lived.  These  are  Charles  d'Orleans  and  Clo- 
tilde  de  Surville. 

Charles,  Duke  of  Orleans,  the  father  of 
Louis  the  Twelfth,  and  uncle  of  Francis 


1 20  The  Trouveres 

the  First,  was  born  in  1391.  In  the  general 
tenor  of  his  life,  the  peculiar  character  of  his 
mind,  and  his  talent  for  poetry,  there  is  a 
striking  resemblance  between  this  noble  poet 
and  James  the  First  of  Scotland,  his  con 
temporary.  Both  were  remarkable  for  learn 
ing  and  refinement ;  both  passed  a  great  por 
tion  of  their  lives  in  sorrow  and  imprisonment ; 
and  both  cheered  the  solitude  of  their  prison- 
walls  with  the  charms  of  poetry.  Charles 
d'Orleans  was  taken  prisoner  at  the  battle  of 
Agincourt,  in  1415,  and  carried  into  England, 
where  he  remained  twenty-five  years  in  cap 
tivity.  It  was  there  that  he  composed  the 
greater  part  of  his  poetry. 

The  poems  of  this  writer  exhibit  a  singular 
delicacy  of  thought  and  sweetness  of  expres^ 
sion.  The  following  little  Renouveaux,  or 
songs  on  the  return  of  spring,  are  full  of 
delicacy  and  beauty. 

"Now  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
And  clothes  him  in  the  embroidery 
Of  glittering  sun  and  clear  blue  sky. 
With  beast  and  bird  the  forest  rings, 
Each  in  his  jargon  cries  or  sings  ; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 


The  Trouveres  121 

"  River,  and  fount,  and  tinkling  brook 
Wear  in  their  dainty  livery 
Drops  of  silver  jewelry  ; 
In  new-made  suit  they  merry  look ; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. " 

The  second  upon  the  same  subject  presents 
a  still  more  agreeable  picture  of  the  departure 
of  winter  and  the  return  of  spring. 

"  Gentle  spring  !  —  in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 
For  winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou,  —  thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train, 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain ; 
And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

*'  Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees  so  old 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow  ; 
And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 
We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low  ; 
And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

"  Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 

Wrap  him  round  in  a  mantle  of  cloud  ; 

But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh  ; 

Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 

6 


122  The  Trouveres 

And  the  earth  looks  bright,  —  and  winter  surly, 
Who  has  toiled  for  naught  both  late  and  early, 
Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. " 

The  only  person  of  that  age  who  can  dispute 
the  laurel  with  Charles  d'Orleans  is  Clotilde 
de  Surville.  This  poetess  was  born  in  the 
Bas -Vivarais,  in  the  year  1405.  Her  style  is 
singularly  elegant  and  correct  ;  and  the  reader 
who  will  take  the  trouble  to  decipher  her  rude 
provincial  orthography  will  find  her  writings 
full  of  quiet  beauty.  The  following  lines, 
which  breathe  the  very  soul  of  maternal  ten 
derness,  are  part  of  a  poem  to  her  first-born. 

"  Sweet  babe  !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face, 

Sleep  on  the  bosom  that  thy  lips  have  pressed  ! 
Sleep,  little  one  ;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother's  breast ! 

"  Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come  that  cometh  not  to  me  ! 
I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ;  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  —  alone  for  thee  ! 

"  His  arms  fall  down  ;  sleep  sits  upon  his  brow ; 

His  eye  is  closed ;  he  sleeps,  —  how  still  and  calm  1 
Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 
Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death's  cold  arm  ? 

"  Awake,  my  boy  !  —  I  tremble  with  affright ! 

Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought  !  —  unclose 
Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light ! 
Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose  ! 


The  Trouvtres  123 

'  Sweet  error  !  —  he  but  slept ;  —  I  breathe  again  ; 

Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  beguile  ! 
O,  when  shall  he  for  whom  I  sigh  in  vain 
Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ?  " 


But  upon  this  theme  I  have  written  enough, 
perhaps  too  much. 

"  'This  may  be  poetry,  for  aught  I  know,' 

Says  an  old,  worthy  friend  of  mine,  while  leaning 
Over  my  shoulder  as  I  write,  —  '  although 
I  can 't  exactly  comprehend  its  meaning.' " 

I  have  touched  upon  the  subject  before  me 
in  a  brief  and  desultory  manner,  and  have 
purposely  left  my  remarks  unencumbered  by 
learned  reference  and  far-sought  erudition  ;  for 
these  are  ornaments  which  would  ill  become  so 
trivial  a  pen  as  this  wherewith  I  write,  though, 
perchance,  the  want  of  them  will  render  my 
essay  unsatisfactory  to  the  scholar  and  the 
critic.  But  I  am  emboldened  thus  to  skim 
with  a  light  wing  over  this  poetic  lore  of  the 
past,  by  the  reflection,  that  the  greater  part  of 
my  readers  belong  not  to  that  grave  and  seri 
ous  class  who  love  the  deep  wisdom  which  lies 
in  quoting  from  a  quaint,  forgotten  tome,  and 
who  are  ready  on  all  occasions  to  say,  "  Com 
mend  me  to  the  owl ! " 


THE   BAPTISM   OF   FIRE 


The  more  you  mow  us  down,  the  thicker  we  rise  ;  the  Christian  blood 
you  spill  is  like  the  seed  you  sow,  —  it  springs  from  the  earth  again  and 

fructifies  the  more. 

TERTULLIAN. 


AS  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  climbed  slowly  up 
the  dungeon  wall,  the  prisoner  sat  and  read  in 
a  tome  with  silver  clasps.  He  was  a  man  in 
the  vigor  of  his  days,  with  a  pale  and  noble 
countenance,  that  wore  less  the  marks  of 
worldly  care  than  of  high  and  holy  thought. 
His  temples  were  already  bald  ;  but  a  thick 
and  curling  beard  bespoke  the  strength  of 
manhood ;  and  his  eye,  dark,  full,  and  elo 
quent,  beamed  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
martyr. 

The  book  before  him  was  a  volume  of  the 
early  Christian  Fathers.  He  was  reading  the 
Apologetic  of  the  eloquent  Tertullian,  the  old 
est  and  ablest  writer  of  the  Latin  Church.  At 
times  he  paused,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven 
as  if  in  prayer,  and  then  read  on  again  in 


The  Baptism  of  Fire  125 

silence.  At  length  a  passage  seemed  to  touch 
his  inmost  soul.  He  read  aloud  :  — 

"  Give  us,  then,  what  names  you  please ; 
from  the  instruments  of  cruelty  you  torture 
us  by,  call  us  Sarmenticians  and  Semaxians, 
because  you  fasten  us  to  trunks  of  trees,  and 
stick  us  about  with  fagots  to  set  us  on  fire  ; 
yet  let  me  tell  you,  when  we  are  thus  begirt 
and  dressed  about  with  fire,  we  are  then  in 
our  most  illustrious  apparel.  These  are  our 
victorious  palms  and  robes  of  glory  ;  and, 
mounted  on  our  funeral  pile,  we  look  upon  our 
selves  as  in  our  triumphal  chariot.  No  won 
der,  then,  such  passive  heroes  please  not  those 
they  vanquish  with  such  conquering  suffer 
ings.  And  therefore  we  pass  for  men  of  de 
spair,  and  violently  bent  upon  our  own  de 
struction.  However,  what  you  are  pleased  to 
call  madness  and  despair  in  us  are  the  very 
actions  which,  under  virtue's  standard,  lift  up 
your  sons  of  fame  and  glory,  and  emblazon 
them  to  future  ages." 

He  arose  and  paced  the  dungeon  to  and 
fro,  with  folded  arms  and  a  firm  step.  His 
thoughts  held  communion  with  eternity. 

"  Father  which  art  in  heaven  ! "  he  ex 
claimed,  "give  me  strength  to  die  like  those 


12  6  The  Baptism  of  Fire 

holy  men  of  old,  who  scorned  to  purchase  life 
at  the  expense  of  truth.  That  truth  has  made 
me  free ;  and  though  condemned  on  earth,  I 
know  that  I  am  absolved  in  heaven  ! " 

He  again  seated  himself  at  his  table,  and 
read  in  that  tome  with  silver  clasps. 

This  solitary  prisoner  was  Anne  Du  Bourg, 
a  man  who  feared  not  man  ;  once  a  merciful 
judge  in  that  august  tribunal  upon  whose 
voice  hung  the  life  and  death  of  those  who 
were  persecuted  for  conscience'  sake,  he  was 
now  himself  an  accused,  a  convicted  heretic, 
condemned  to  the  Baptism  of  Fire,  because  he 
would  not  unrighteously  condemn  others.  He 
had  dared  to  plead  the  cause  of  suffering  hu 
manity  before  that  dread  tribunal,  and,  in  the 
presence  of  the  king  himself,  to  declare  that  it 
was  an  offence  to  the  majesty  of  God  to  shed 
man's  blood  in  his  name.  Six  weary  months 
—  from  June  to  December  —  he  had  lain  a 
prisoner  in  that  dungeon,  from  which  a  death 
by  fire  was  soon  to  set  him  free.  Such  was 
the  clemency  of  Henry  the  Second  ! 

As  the  prisoner  read,  his  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears.  He  still  gazed  upon  the  printed 
page,  but  it  was  a  blank  before  his  eyes.  His 
thoughts  were  far  away  amid  the  scenes  of  his 


The  Baptism  of  Fire  127 

childhood,  amid  the  green  valleys  of  Riom  and 
the.  Golden  Mountains  of  Auvergne.  Some 
simple  word  had  called  up  the  vision  of  the 
past.  He  was  a  child  again.  He  was  playing 
with  the  pebbles  of  the  brook,  —  he  was  shout 
ing  to  the  echo  of  the  hills,  —  he  was  praying 
at  his  mother's  knee,  with  his  little  hands 
clasped  in  hers. 

This  dream  of  childhood  was  broken  by  the 
grating  of  bolts  and  bars,  as  the  jailer  opened 
his  prison-door.  A  moment  afterward,  his  for 
mer  colleague,  De  Harley,  stood  at  his  side. 

"  Thou  here  ! "  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  sur 
prised  at  the  visit.  "  Thou  in  the  dungeon  of 
a  heretic  !  On  what  errand  hast  thou  come  ?  " 

"  On  an  errand  of  mercy,"  replied  De  Har 
ley.  "I  come  to  tell  thee " 

"  That  the  hour  of  my  death  draws  near  ? " 

"  That  thou  mayst  still  be  saved." 

"  Yes  ;  if  I  will  bear  false  witness  against 
my  God,  —  barter  heaven  for  earth,  —  an  eter 
nity  for  a  few  brief  days  of  worldly  existence. 
Lost,  thou  shouldst  say,  —  lost,  not  saved  ! " 

"  No !  saved ! "  cried  De  Harley  with  warmth ; 
"  saved  from  a  death  of  shame  and  an  eternity 
of  woe  !  Renounce  this  false  doctrine,  —  this 
abominable  heresy,  —  and  return  again  to  the 


128  The  Baptism  of  Fire 

bosom  of  the  church  which  thou  dost  rend 
with  strife  and  dissension." 

"  God  judge  between  thee  and  me,  which 
has  embraced  the  truth." 

"  His  hand  already  smites  thee." 

"  It  has  fallen  more  heavily  upon  those  who 
so  unjustly  persecute  me.  Where  is  the  king  ? 

—  he  who  said   that  with    his   own  eyes   he 
would  behold  me  perish  at  the  stake  ?  —  he  to 
whom  the  undaunted  Du  Faur  cried,  like  Eli 
jah  to  Ahab,  '  It  is  thou  who  troublest  Israel! ' 

—  Where  is  the  king  ?     Called,  through  a  sud 
den  and  violent  death,  to  the  judgment-seat  of 
Heaven  !  —  Where  is    Minard,  the  persecutor 
of  the  just?     Slain  by  the  hand  of  an  assas 
sin  !     It  was   not  without   reason  that  I  said 
to   him,  when    standing   before   my   accusers, 
'  Tremble !   believe   the  word   of  one  who   is 
about   to   appear   before  God  ;   thou   likewise 
shalt  stand  there  soon,  —  thou  that   sheddest 
the  blood  of  the  children  of  peace.'     He  has 
gone  to  his  account  before  me." 

"  And  that  menace  has  hastened  thine  own 
condemnation.  Minard  was  slain  by  the  Hu 
guenots,  and  it  is  whispered  that  thou  wast 
privy  to  his  death." 

"This,  at  least,  might  have  been  spared  a 


The  Baptism  of  Fire  129 

dying  man ! "  replied  the  prisoner,  much  agi 
tated  by  so  unjust  and  so  unexpected  an  accu 
sation.  "  As  I  hope  for  mercy  hereafter,  I  am 
innocent  of  the  blood  of  this  man,  and  of  all 
knowledge  of  so  foul  a  crime.  But,  tell  me, 
hast  thou  come  here  only  to  embitter  my  last 
hours  with  such  an  accusation  as  this  ?  If  so, 
I  pray  thee,  leave  me.  My  moments  are  pre 
cious.  I  would  be  alone." 

"  I  came  to  offer  thee  life,  freedom,  and  hap 
piness." 

"  Life,  —  freedom,  —  happiness  !  At  the 
price  thou  hast  set  upon  them,  I  scorn  them 
all !  Had  the  apostles  and  martyrs  of  the 
early  Christian  Church  listened  to  such  paltry 
bribes  as  these,  where  were  now  the  faith  in 
which  we  trust  ?  These  holy  men  of  old  shall 
answer  for  me.  Hear  what  Justin  Martyr 
says,  in  his  earnest  appeal  to  Antonine  the 
Pious,  in  behalf  of  the  Christians  who  in  nis 
day  were  unjustly  loaded  with  public  odium 
and  oppression." 

He  opened  the  volume  before  him  and 
read :  — 

"  I  could  wish  you  would  take  this  also  into 
consideration,  that  what  we  say  is  really  for 
your  own  good  ;  for  it  is  in  our  power  at  any 


1 30  ~I'ke  Baptism  of  Fire 

time  to  escape  your  torments  by  denying  the 
faith,  when  you  question  us  about  it :  but  we 
scorn  to  purchase  life  at  the  expense  of  a  lie  ; 
for  our  souls  are  winged  with  a  desire  of  a  life 
of  eternal  duration  and  purity,  of  an  immediate 
conversation  with  God,  the  Father  and  Maker 
of  all  things.  We  are  in  haste  to  be  confess 
ing  and  finishing  our  faith  ;  being  fully  per 
suaded  that  we  shall  arrive  at  this  blessed 
state,  if  we  approve  ourselves  to  God  by  our 
works,  and  by  our  obedience  express  our  pas 
sion  for  that  divine  life  which  is  never  inter 
rupted  by  any  clashing  evil." 

The  Catholic  and  the  Huguenot  reasoned 
long  and  earnestly  together ;  but  they  rea 
soned  in  vain.  Each  was  firm  in  his  belief; 
and  they  parted  to  meet  no  more  on  earth. 

On  the  following  day,  Du  Bourg  was  sum 
moned  before  his  judges  to  receive  his  final 
sentence.  He  heard  it  unmoved,  and  with  a 
prayer  to  God  that  he  would  pardon  those 
who  had  condemned  him  according  to  their 
consciences.  He  then  addressed  his  judges  in 
an  oration  full  of  power  and  eloquence.  It 
closed  with  these  words  :  — 

"  And  now,  ye  judges,  if,  indeed,  you  hold 
the  sword  of  God  as  ministers  of  his  wrath,  to 


The  Baptism  of  Fire  131 

take  vengeance  upon  those  who  do  evil,  be 
ware,  I  charge  you,  beware  how  you  condemn 
us.  Consider  well  what  evil  we  have  done  ; 
and,  before  all  things,  decide  whether  it  be 
just  that  we  should  listen  unto  you  rather 
than  unto  God.  Are  you  so  drunken  with 
the  wine-cup  of  the  great  sorceress,  that  you 
drink  poison  for  nourishment  ?  Are  you  not 
those  who  make  the  people  sin,  by  turning 
them  away  from  the  service  of  God  ?  And  if 
you  regard  more  the  opinion  of  men  than  that 
of  Heaven,  in  what  esteem  are  you  held  by 
other  nations,  and  principalities,  and  powers, 
for  the  martyrdoms  you  have  caused  in  obe 
dience  to  this  blood-stained  Phalaris  ?  God 
grant,  thou  cruel  tyrant,  that  by  thy  miserable 
death  thou  mayst  put  an  end  to  our  groans  ! 

"  Why  weep  ye  ?  What  means  this  delay  ? 
Your  hearts  are  heavy  within  you,  —  your 
consciences  are  haunted  by  the  judgment  of 
God.  And  thus  it  is  that  the  condemned  re 
joice  in  the  fires  you  have  kindled,  and  think 
they  never  live  better  than  in  the  midst  of 
consuming  flames.  Torments  affright  them 
not,  —  insults  enfeeble  them  not  ;  their  honor 
is  redeemed  by  death,  —  he  that  dies  is  the 
conqueror,  and  the  conquered  he  that  mourns. 


132  The  Baptism  of  Fire 

"  No !  whatever  snares  are  spread  for  us, 
whatever  suffering  we  endure,  you  cannot 
separate  us  from  the  love  of  Christ.  Strike, 
then,  —  slay,  —  grind  us  to  powder !  Those 
that  die  in  the  Lord  shall  live  again  ;  we  shall 
all  be  raised  together.  Condemn  me  as  you 
will,  —  I  am  a  Christian  ;  yes,  I  am  a  Chris 
tian,  and  am  ready  to  die  for  the  glory  of  our 
Lord,  —  for  the  truth  of  the  Evangelists. 

"  Quench,  then,  your  fires  !  Let  the  wicked 
abandon  his  way,  and  return  unto  the  Lord, 
and  he  will  have  compassion  on  him.  Live, — 
be  happy,  —  and  meditate  on  God,  ye  judges ! 
As  for  me,  I  go  rejoicing  to  my  death.  What 
wait  ye  for  ?  Lead  me  to  the  scaffold  !  " 

They  bound  the  prisoner's  hands,  and, 
leading  him  forth  from  the  council-chamber, 
placed  him  upon  the  cart  that  was  to  bear 
him  to  the  Place  de  Greve.  Before  and  be 
hind  marched  a  guard  of  five  hundred  sol 
diers  ;  for  Du  Bourg  was  beloved  by  the  peo 
ple,  and  a  popular  tumult  was  apprehended. 
The  day  was  overcast  and  sad ;  and  ever  and 
anon  the  sound  of  the  tolling  bell  mingled  its 
dismal  clang  with  the  solemn  notes  of  the 
funeral  march.  They  soon  reached  the  place 
of  execution,  which  was  already  filled  with  a 


The  Baptism  of  Fire  133 

dense  and  silent  crowd.  In  the  centre  stood 
the  gallows,  with  a  pile  of  fagots  beneath  it, 
and  the  executioner  with  a  burning  torch  in 
his  hand.  But  this  funeral  apparel  inspired  no 
terror  in  the  heart  of  Du  Bourg.  A  look  of 
triumph  beamed  from  his  eye,  and  his  coun 
tenance  shone  like  that  of  an  angel.  With 
his  own  hands  he  divested  himself  of  his  outer 
garments,  and,  gazing  round  upon  the  breath 
less  and  sympathizing  crowd,  exclaimed,  — 

"  My  friends,  I  come  not  hither  as  a  thief  or 
a  murderer  ;  but  it  is  for  the  Gospel's  sake  !  " 

A  cord  was  then  fastened  round  his  waist, 
and  he  was  drawn  up  into  the  air.  At  the 
same  moment  the  burning  torch  of  the  execu 
tioner  was  applied  to  the  fagots  beneath,  and 
the  thick  volumes  of  smoke  concealed  the 
martyr  from  the  horror-stricken  crowd.  One 
stifled  groan  arose  from  all  that  vast  multitude, 
like  the  moan  of  the  sea,  and  all  was  hushed 
again  ;  save  the  crackling  of  the  fagots,  and  at 
intervals  the  funeral  knell,  that  smote  the  very 
soul.  The  quivering  flames  darted  upward 
and  around  ;  and  an  agonizing  cry  broke  from 
the  murky  cloud,  — 

"  My  God  !  my  God  !  forsake  me  not,  that  I 
forsake  not  thee  !  " 


•  ,*  ,*»,,•»..'« 

134  The  Baptism  of  Fire 

The  wind  lifted  the  reddening  smoke  like  a 
veil,  and  the  form  of  the  martyr  was  seen  to 
fall  into  the  fire  beneath.  In  a  moment  it  rose 
again,  its  garments  all  in  flame  ;  and  again 
the  faint,  half:smothered  cry  of  agony  was 
heard,  — 

"  My  God  !  my  God  !  forsake  me  not,  that  I 
forsake  not  thee  ! " 

Once  more  the  quivering  body  descended  in 
to  the  flames  ;  and  once  more  it  was  lifted  into 
the  air,  a  blackened,  burning  cinder.  Again 
and  again  this  fiendish  mockery  of  baptism 
was  repeated  ;  till  the  martyr,  with  a  despair 
ing,  suffocating  voice,  exclaimed,  — 

"  O  God  !  I  cannot  die  ! " 

The  executioner  came  forward,  and,  either 
in  mercy  to  the  dying  man  or  through  fear 
of  the  populace,  threw  a  noose  over  his  neck, 
and  strangled  the  almost  lifeless  victim.  At 
the  same  moment  the  cord  which  held  the 
body  was  loosened,  and  it  fell  into  the  fire  to 
rise  no  more.  And  thus  was  consummated 
the  martyrdom  of  the  Baptism  of  Fire. 


Los 


COQ-A-L'ANE 

My  brain,  methinks,  is  like  an  hour-glass, 
Wherein  ray  imaginations  run  like  sands, 
Filling  up  time  ;  but  then  are  turned,  and  turned, 
So  that  I  know  not  what  to  stay  upon 
And  less  to  put  in  art. 

BEN  JONSON. 

A  RAINY  and  gloomy  winter  was  jusi 
drawing  to  its  close,  when  I  left  Paris  for 
the  South  of  France.  We  started  at  sunrise  ; 
and  as  we  passed  along  the  solitary  streets  of 
the  vast  and  silent  metropolis,  drowsily  one  by 
one  its  clanging  horologes  chimed  the  hour  of 
six.  Beyond  the  city  gates  the  wide  landscape 
was  covered  with  a  silvery  network  of  frost ;  a 
wreath  of  vapor  overhung  the  windings  of  the 
Seine ;  and  every  twig  and  shrub,  with  its 
sheath  of  crystal,  flashed  in  the  level  rays  of 
the  rising  sun.  The  sharp,  frosty  air  seemed 
to  quicken  the  sluggish  blood  of  the  old  postil 
ion  and  his  horses  ;  —  a  fresh  team  stood  ready 
in  harness  at  each  stage  ;  and  notwithstanding 
the  slippery  pavement  of  the  causeway,  the 
long  and  tedious  climbing  of  the  hillside,  and 


1 36  Coq-a-rAne 

the  equally  long  and  tedious  descent  with 
chained  wheels  and  the  drag,  just  after  night 
fall  the  lumbering  vehicle  of  Vincent  Caillard 
stopped  at  the  gateway  of  the  "  Three  Empe 
rors,"  in  the  famous  city  of  Orleans. 

I  cannot  pride  myself  much  upon  being  a 
good  travelling-companion,  for  the  rocking  of  a 
coach  always  lulls  me  into  forgetfulness  of  the 
present ;  and  no  sooner  does  the  hollow,  mo 
notonous  rumbling  of  the  wheels  reach  my 
ear,  than,  like  Nick  Bottom,  "  I  have  an  expo 
sition  of  sleep  come  upon  me."  It  is  not, 
however,  the  deep,  sonorous  slumber  of  a  la 
borer,  "stuffed  with  distressful  bread,"  but  a 
kind  of  day-dream,  wherein  the  creations  of 
fancy  seem  realities,  and  the  real  world,  which 
swims  dizzily  before  the  half-shut,  drowsy  eye, 
becomes  mingled  with  the  imaginary  world 
within.  This  is  doubtless  a  very  great  failing 
in  a  traveller ;  and  I  confess,  with  all  humility, 
that  at  times  the  line  of  demarcation  between 
truth  and  fiction  is  rendered  thereby  so  indefi 
nite  and  indistinct,  that  I  cannot  always  de 
termine,  with  unerring  certainty,  whether  an 
event  really  happened  to  me,  or  whether  I 
only  dreamed  it. 

On  this  account  I  shall  not  attempt  a  de- 


Coq-a-l'Ane  137 

tailed  description  of  my  journey  from  Paris  to 
Bordeaux.  I  was  travelling  like  a  bird  of  pas 
sage  ;  and  five  weary  days  and  four  weary 
nights  I  was  on  the  way.  The  diligence 
stopped  only  to  change  horses,  and  for  the 
travellers  to  take  their  meals ;  and  by  night  I 
slept  with  my  head  under  my  wing  in  a  snug 
corner  of  the  coach. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear  to  some  of  my 
readers,  this  night-travelling  is  at  times  far 
from  being  disagreeable  ;  nay,  if  the  country  is 
flat  and  uninteresting,  and  you  are  favored 
with  a  moon,  it  may  be  very  pleasant.  As 
the  night  advances,  the  conversation  around 
you  gradually  dies  away,  and  is  imperceptibly 
given  up  to  some  garrulous  traveller  who  finds 
himself  belated  in  the  midst  of  a  long  story  ; 
and  when  at  length  he  puts  out  his  feelers  in 
the  form  of  a  question,  discovers,  by  the  si 
lence  around  him,  that  the  breathless  attention 
of  his  audience  is  owing  to  their  being  asleep. 
All  is  now  silent.  You  let  down  the  window 
of  the  carriage,  and  the  fresh  night-air  cools 
your  flushed  and  burning  cheek.  The  land 
scape,  th^agh  in  reality  dull  and  uninteresting, 
seems  beautiful  as  it  floats  by  in  the  soft 
moonshine.  Every  ruined  hovel  is  changed 


138  Coq-a-l'Ane 

by  the  magic  of  night  to  a  trim  cottage,  every 
straggling  and  dilapidated  hamlet  becomes  as 
beautiful  as  those  we  read  of  in  poetry  and  ro 
mance.  Over  the  lowland  hangs  a  silver  mist ; 
over  the  hills  peep  the  twinkling  stars.  The 
keen  night-air  is  a  spur  to  the  postilion  and 
his  horses.  In  the  words  of  the  German  bal 
lad,— 

"  Halloo  !  halloo  !  away  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry, 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 
And  all  on  which  the  moon  doth  shine 

Behind  them  flees  afar, 
And  backward  sped,  scud  overhead, 

The  sky  and  every  star. " 

Anon  you  stop  at  the  relay.  The  drowsy 
hostler  crawls  out  of  the  stable-yard  ;  a  few 
gruff  words  and  strange  oaths  pass  between 
him  and  the  postilion,  —  then  there  is  a  coarse 
joke  in  patois,  of  which  you  understand  the 
ribaldry  only,  and  which  is  followed  by  a 
husky  laugh,  a  sound  between  a  hiss  and  a 
growl ;  —  and  then  you  are  off  again  in  a 
crack.  Occasionally  a  way-traveller  is  un 
caged,  and  a  new-comer  takes  the  vacant 
perch  at  your  elbow.  Meanwhile  your  busy 
fancy  speculates  upon  all  these  things,  and 


you  fall  asleep  amid  its  thousand  vagaries. 
Soon  you  wake  again  and  snuff  the  morning 
air.  It  was  but  a  moment,  and  yet  the  night 
is  gone.  The  gray  of  twilight  steals  into  the 
window,  and  gives  a  ghastly  look  to  the  coun 
tenances  of  the  sleeping  group  around  you. 
One  sits  bolt  upright  in  a  corner,  offending 
none,  and  stiff  and  motionless  as  an  Egyptian 
mummy  ;  another  sits  equally  straight  and  im 
movable,  but  snores  like  a  priest ;  the  head  of 
a  third  is  dangling  over  his  shoulder,  and  the 
tassel  of  his  nightcap  tickles  his  neighbor's 
ear ;  a  fourth  has  lost  his  hat,  —  his  wig  is 
awry,  and  his  under-lip  hangs  lolling  about 
like  an  idiot's.  The  whole  scene  is  a  living 
caricature  of  man,  presenting  human  nature  in 
some  of  the  grotesque  attitudes  she  assumes 
when  that  pragmatical  schoolmaster,  Propriety, 
has  fallen  asleep  in  his  chair,  and  the  unruly 
members  of  his  charge  are  freed  from  the 
thraldom  of  the  rod. 

On  leaving  Orleans,  instead  of  following  the 
great  western  mail-route  through  Tours,  Poi 
tiers,  and  Angouleme,  and  thence  on  to  Bor 
deaux,  I  struck  across  the  departments  of  the 
Indre,  Haute-Vienne,  and  the  Dordogne,  pass 
ing  through  the  provincial  capitals  of  Chateau- 


140  Coq-a-l'Ane 

roux,  Limoges,  and  Perigueux.  South  of  the 
Loire  the  country  assumes  a  more  mountain 
ous  aspect,  and  the  landscape  is  broken  by 
long  sweeping  hills  and  fertile  valleys.  Many 
a  fair  scene  invites  the  traveller's  foot  to  pause  ; 
and  his  eye  roves  with  delight  over  the  pictu 
resque  landscape  of  the  valley  of  the  Creuse,  and 
the  beautiful  highland  scenery  near  Perigueux. 
There  are  also  many  objects  of  art  and  anti 
quity  which  arrest  his  attention.  Argenton 
boasts  its  Roman  amphitheatre,  and  the  ruins 
of  an  old  castle  built  by  King  Pepin  ;  at  Cha- 
lus  the  tower  beneath  which  Richard  Coeur- 
de-Lion  was  slain  is  still  pointed  out  to  the 
curious  traveller ;  and  Perigueux  is  full  of 
crumbling  monuments  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Scenes  like  these,  and  the  constant  chatter 
of  my  fellow-travellers,  served  to  enliven  the 
tedium  of  a  long  and  fatiguing  journey.  The 
French  are  pre-eminently  a  talking  people  ; 
and  every  new  object  afforded  a  topic  for  light 
and  animated  discussion.  The  affairs  of  church 
and  state  were,  however,  the  themes  oftenest 
touched  upon.  The  bill  for  the  suppression  of 
the  liberty  of  the  press  was  then  under  discus 
sion  in  the  Chamber  of  Peers,  and  excited  the 
most  lively  interest  through  the  whole  king- 


Coq-a-l'Ane  141 

dom.  Of  course  it  was  a  subject  not  likely  to 
be  forgotten  in  a  stage-coach. 

"  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  ! "  said  a  brisk  little  man, 
with  snow-white  hair  and  a  blazing  red  face, 
at  the  same  time  drawing  up  his  shoulders  to 
a  level  with  his  ears  ;  "  the  ministry  are  de 
termined  to  carry  their  point  at  all  events. 
They  mean  to  break  down  the  liberty  of  the 
press,  cost  what  it  will." 

"  If  they  succeed,"  added  the  person  who  sat 
opposite,  "we  may  thank  the  Jesuits  for  it.  It 
is  all  their  work.  They  rule  the  mind  of  our 
imbecile  monarch,  and  it  is  their  miserable 
policy  to  keep  the  people  in  darkness." 

"No  doubt  of  that,"  rejoined  the  first  speak 
er.  "Why,  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday  I 
read  in  the  Figaro  that  a  printer  had  been 
prosecuted  for  publishing  the  moral  lessons  of 
the  Evangelists  without  the  miracles." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  said  I.  "  And  are  the 
people  so  stupid  as  thus  patiently  to  offer 
their  shoulders  to  the  pack-saddle  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly  not !  We  shall  have  an 
other  revolution." 

"If  history  speaks  true,  you  have  had  rev 
olutions  enough,  during  the  last  century  or 
two,  to  satisfy  the  most  mercurial  nation  on 


142  Coq-a-VAne. 

earth.  You  have  hardly  been  quiet  a  moment 
since  the  day  of  the  Barricades  and  the  mem 
orable  war  of  \hepots-de-chambre  in  the  times 
of  the  Grand  Conde." 

"You  are  pleased  to  speak  lightly  of  our 
revolutions,  sir,"  rejoined  the  politician,  grow 
ing  warm.  "  You  must,  however,  confess  that 
each  successive  one  has  brought  us  nearer  to 
our  object.  Old  institutions,  whose  founda 
tions  lie  deep  in  the  prejudices  of  a  great  na 
tion,  are  not  to  be  toppled  down  by  the  spring 
ing  of  a  single  mine.  You  must  confess,  too, 
that  our  national  character  is  much  improved 
since  the  days  you  speak  of.  The  youth  of 
the  present  century  are  not  so  frivolous  as 
those  of  the  last.  They  have  no  longer  that 
unbounded  levity  and  light-heartedness  so  gen 
erally  ascribed  to  them.  From  this  circum 
stance  we  have  everything  to  hope.  Our  revo 
lutions,  likewise,  must  necessarily  change  their 
character  and  secure  to  us  more  solid  advan 
tages  than  heretofore." 

"  Luck  makes  pluck,  as  the  Germans  say. 
You  go  on  bravely ;  but  it  gives  me  pain  to 
see  religion  and  the  church  so  disregarded." 

"  Superstition  and  the  church,  you  mean," 
said  the  gray-headed  man.  "  Why,  sir,  the 


Coq-a-VAne  143 

church  is  nothing  now-a-days  but  a  tumble 
down,  dilapidated  tower  for  rooks  and  daws, 
and  such  silly  birds,  to  build  their  nests  in  1 " 

It  was  now  very  evident  that  I  had  un 
earthed  a  radical ;  and  there  is  no  knowing 
when  his  harangue  would  have  ended,  had 
not  his  voice  been  drowned  by  the  noise  of 
the  wheels,  as  we  entered  the  paved  street 
of  the  city  of  Limoges. 

A  breakfast  of  boiled  capon  stuffed  with 
truffles,  and  accompanied  by  a  Pat£  de  Peri- 
gueux,  a  dish  well  known  to  French  gourmands, 
restored  us  all  to  good-humor.  While  we  were 
at  breakfast,  a  personage  stalked  into  the  room, 
whose  strange  appearance  arrested  my  atten 
tion,  and  gave  subject  for  future  conversation 
to  our  party.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  figure, 
armed  with  a  long  whip,  brass  spurs,  and 
black  whiskers.  He  wore  a  bell-crowned, 
varnished  hat,  a  blue  frock-coat  with  standing 
collar,  a  red  waistcoat,  a  pair  of  yellow  leather 
breeches,  and  boots  that  reached  to  the  knees. 
I  at  first  took  him  for  a  postilion,  or  a  private 
courier ;  but,  upon  inquiry,  I  found  that  he 
was  only  the  son  of  a  notary-public,  and  that 
he  dressed  in  this  strange  fashion  to  please  his 
ovrn  fancy. 


1 44  Coq-a-l'A  ne 

As  soon  as  we  were  comfortably  seated  in 
the  diligence,  I  made  some  remark  on  the 
singular  costume  of  the  personage  whom  I 
had  just  seen  at  the  tavern. 

"These  things  are  so  common  with  us,"  said 
the  politician,  "that  we  hardly  notice  them." 

"  What  you  want  in  liberty  of  speech,  then, 
you  make  up  in  liberty  of  dress  ? " 

"  Yes ;  in  this,  at  least,  we  are  a  free  peo 
ple." 

"  I  had  not  been  long  in  France,  before  I 
discovered  that  a  man  may  dress  as  he  pleases, 
without  being  stared  at.  The  most  opposite 
styles  of  dress  seem  to  be  in  vogue  at  the  same 
moment.  No  strange  garment  nor  desperate 
hat  excites  either  ridicule  or  surprise.  French 
fashions  are  known  and  imitated  all  the  world 
over." 

"Very  true,  indeed,"  said  a  little  man  in 
gosling-green.  "  We  give  fashions  to  all  other 
nations." 

"  Fashions  !  "  said  the  politician,  with  a  kind 
of  growl,  —  "  fashions  !  Yes,  sir,  and  some  of 
us  are  simple  enough  to  boast  of  it,  as  if  we 
were  a  nation  of  tailors." 

Here  the  little  man  in  gosling-green  pulled 
up  the  horns  of  his  cotton  shirt-collar. 


Coq-a-l'Ane  145 

"  I  recollect,"  said  I,  "  that  your  Madame  de 
Pompadour  in  one  of  her  letters  says  some 
thing  to  this  effect :  '  We  furnish  our  enemies 
with  hair-dressers,  ribbons,  and  fashions  ;  and 
they  furnish  us  with  laws.' " 

"That  is  not  the  only  silly  thing  she  said 
in  her  lifetime.  Ah  !  sir,  these  Pompadours 
and  Maintenons,  and  Montespans  were  the 
authors  of  much  woe  to  France.  Their  follies 
and  extravagances  exhausted  the  public  treas 
ury,  and  made  the  nation  poor.  They  built 
palaces,  and  covered  themselves  with  jewels, 
and  ate  from  golden  plate  ;  while  the  people 
who  toiled  for  them  had  hardly  a  crust  to 
keep  their  own  children  from  starvation  ! 
And  yet  they  preach  to  us  the  divine  right 
of  kings ! " 

My  radical  had  got  upon  his  high  horse 
again  ;  and  I  know  not  whither  it  would  have 
carried  him,  had  not  a  thin  man  with  a  black, 
seedy  coat,  who  sat  at  his  elbow,  at  that  mo 
ment  crossed  his  path  by  one  of  those  abrupt 
and  sudden  transitions  which  leave  you  aghast 
at  the  strange  association  of  ideas  in  the 
speaker's  mind. 

"Apropos  de  bottes!"  exclaimed  he,  "  speak 
ing  of  boots,  and  notaries  public,  and  such 
7  J 


146  Coq-a-FAne 

matters,  —  excuse  me  for  interrupting  you, 
sir,  —  a  little  story  has  just  popped  into  my 
head  which  may  amuse  the  company ;  and  as 
I  am  not  very  fond  of  political  discussions,  — 
no  offence,  sir,  —  I  will  tell  it,  for  the  sake  of 
changing  the  conversation." 

Whereupon,  without  further  preamble  or 
apology,  he  proceeded  to  tell  his  story  in,  as 
nearly  as  may  be,  the  following  words. 


THE  NOTARY   OF   PERIGUEUX 


Do  not  trust  thy  body  with  a  physician.  He  '11  make  thy  foolish  bones 
go  without  flesh  in  a  fortnight,  and  thy  soul  walk  without  a  body  a  sen 
night  after. 

SHIRLEY. 

YOU  must  know,  gentlemen,  that  there 
lived  some  years  ago,  in  the  city  of  Peri- 
gueux,  an  honest  notary-public,  the  descend 
ant  of  a  very  ancient  and  broken-down  family, 
and  the  occupant  of  one  of  those  old  weather- 
beaten  tenements  which  remind  you  of  the 
times  of  your  great-grandfather.  He  was  a 
man  of  an  unoffending,  quiet  disposition  ;  the 
father  of  a  family,  though  not  the  head  of  it,  — 
for  in  that  family  "the  hen  overcrowed  the 
cock,"  and  the  neighbors,  when  they  spake 
of  the  notary,  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and 
exclaimed,  "  Poor  fellow  !  his  spurs  want  sharp 
ening."  In  fine,  —  you  understand  me,  gen 
tlemen,  —  he  was  hen-pecked. 

Well,  finding  no  peace  at  home,  he  sought 
it  elsewhere,  as  was  very  natural  for  him  to 
do ;  and  at  length  discovered  a  place  of  rest, 


148       The  Notary  of  Perigueux 

far  beyond  the  cares  and  clamors  of  domes 
tic  life.  This  was  a  little  Cafe  Estaminet,  a 
short  way  out  of  the  city,  whither  he  re 
paired  every  evening  to  smoke  his  pipe,  drink 
sugar-water,  and  play  his  favorite  game  of 
domino.  There  he  met  the  boon  companions 
he  most  loved  ;  heard  all  the  floating  chitchat 
of  the  day ;  laughed  when  he  was  in  merry 
mood  ;  found  consolation  when  he  was  sad  ; 
and  at  all  times  gave  vent  to  his  opinions, 
without  fear  of  being  snubbed  short  by  a  flat 
contradiction. 

Now,  the  notary's  bosom-friend  was  a  dealer 
in  claret  and  cognac,  who  lived  about  a  league 
from  the  city,  and  always  passed  his  evenings 
at  the  Estaminet.  He  was  a  gross,  corpulent 
fellow,  raised  from  a  full-blooded  Gascon  breed, 
and  sired  by  a  comic  actor  of  some  reputation 
in  his  way.  He  was  remarkable  for  nothing 
but  his  good-humor,  his  love  of  cards,  and  a 
strong  propensity  to  test  the  quality  of  his 
own  liquors  by  comparing  them  with  those 
sold  at  other  places. 

As  evil  communications  corrupt  good  man 
ners,  the  bad  practices  of  the  wine-dealer  won 
insensibly  upon  the  worthy  notary  ;  and  before 
he  was  aware  of  it,  he  found  himself  weaned 


The  Notary  of  P'erigueux        149 

from  domino  and  sugar-water,  and  addicted  to 
piquet  and  spiced  wine.  Indeed,  it  not  unfre- 
quently  happened,  that,  after  a  long  session  at 
the  Estaminet,  the  two  friends  grew  so  urbane, 
that  they  would  waste  a  full  half-hour  at  the 
door  in  friendly  dispute  which  should  con 
duct  the  other  home. 

Though  this  course  of  life  agreed  well 
enough  with  the  sluggish,  phlegmatic  tem 
perament  of  the  wine-dealer,  it  soon  began  to 
play  the  very  deuse  with  the  more  sensitive 
organization  of  the  notary,  and  finally  put  his 
nervous  system  completely  out  of  tune.  He 
lost  his  appetite,  became  gaunt  and  haggard, 
and  could  get  no  sleep.  Legions  of  blue-devils 
haunted  him  by  day,  and  by  night  strange 
faces  peeped  through  his  bed-curtains,  and  the 
nightmare  snorted  in  his  ear.  The  worse  he 
grew,  the  more  he  smoked  and  tippled  ;  and 
the  more  he  smoked  and  tippled,  —  why,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  the  worse  he  grew.  His  wife 
alternately  stormed,  remonstrated,  entreated  ; 
but  all  in  vain.  She  made  the  house  too  hot 
for  him,  —  he  retreated  to  the  tavern  ;  she 
broke  his  long-stemmed  pipes  upon  the  and 
irons, —  he  substituted  a  short-stemmed  one, 
which,  for  safe  keeping,  he  carried  in  his 
waistcoat-pocket. 


150       The  Notary  of  Perigueux 

Thus  the  unhappy  notary  ran  gradually 
down  at  the  heel.  What  with  his  bad  habits 
and  his  domestic  grievances,  he  became  com 
pletely  hipped.  He  imagined  that  he  was  go 
ing  to  die  ;  and  suffered  in  quick  succession 
all  the  diseases  that  ever  beset  mortal  man. 
Every  shooting  pain  was  an  alarming  symp 
tom,  —  every  uneasy  feeling  after  dinner  a 
sure  prognostic  of  some  mortal  disease.  In 
vain  did  his  friends  endeavor  to  reason,  and 
then  to  laugh  him  out  of  his  strange  whims  ; 
for  when  did  ever  jest  or  reason  cure  a  sick 
imagination  ?  His  only  answer  was,  "  Do  let 
me  alone ;  I  know  better  than  you  what  ails 
me." 

Well,  gentlemen,  things  were  in  this  state, 
when,  one  afternoon  in  December,  as  he  sat 
moping  in  his  office,  wrapped  in  an  overcoat, 
with  a  cap  on  his  head  and  his  feet  thrust  into 
a  pair  of  furred  slippers,  a  cabriolet  stopped  at 
the  door,  and  a  loud  knocking  without  aroused 
him  from  his  gloomy  revery.  It  was  a  mes 
sage  from  his  friend  the  wine-dealer,  who  had 
been  suddenly  attacked  with  a  violent  fever, 
and  growing  worse  and  worse,  had  now  sent 
in  the  greatest  haste  for  the  notary  to  draw  up 
his  last  will  and  testament.  The  case  was  ur- 


The  Notary  of  Perigmux        151 

gent,  and  admitted  neither  excuse  nor  delay  ; 
and  the  notary,  tying  a  handkerchief  round  his 
face,  and  buttoning  up  to  the  chin,  jumped 
into  the  cabriolet,  and  suffered  himself,  though 
not  without  some  dismal  presentiments  and 
misgivings  of  heart,  to  be  driven  to  the  wine- 
dealer's  house. 

When  he  arrived,  he  found  everything  in  the 
greatest  confusion.  On  entering  the  house,  he 
ran  against  the  apothecary,  who  was  coming 
down  stairs,  with  a  face  as  long  as  your  arm  ; 
and  a  few  steps  farther  he  met  the  house 
keeper  —  for  the  wine-dealer  was  an  old  bach 
elor —  running  up  and  down,  and  wringing 
her  hands,  for  fear  that  the  good  man  should 
die  without  making  his  will.  He  soon  reached 
the  chamber  of  his  sick  friend,  and  found  him 
tossing  about  in  a  paroxysm  of  fever,  and  call 
ing  aloud  for  a  draught  of  cold  water.  The 
notary  shook  his  head  ;  he  thought  this  a  fatal 
symptom  ;  for  ten  years  back  the  wine-dealer 
had  been  suffering  under  a  species  of  hydro 
phobia,  which  seemed  suddenly  to  have  left 
him. 

When  the  sick  man  saw  who  stood  by  his 
bedside,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  ex 
claimed,  — 


152       The  Notary  of  Perigueux 

"Ah !  my  dear  friend  !  have  you  come  at 
last  ?  You  see  it  is  all  over  with  me.  You 
have  arrived  just  in  time  to  draw  up  that  — 
that  passport  of  mine.  Ah,  grand  diable! 
how  hot  it  is  here  !  Water,  —  water,  —  wa 
ter  !  Will  nobody  give  me  a  drop  of  cold 
water  ? " 

As  the  case  was  an  urgent  one,  the  notary 
made  no  delay  in  getting  his  papers  in  readi 
ness  ;  and  in  a  short  time  the  last  will  and  tes 
tament  of  the  wine-dealer  was  drawn  up  in 
due  form,  the  notary  guiding  the  sick  man's 
hand  as  he  scrawled  his  signature  at  the  bot 
tom. 

As  the  evening  wore  away,  the  wine-dealer 
grew  worse  and  worse,  and  at  length  became 
delirious,  mingling  in  his  incoherent  ravings 
the  phrases  of  the  Credo  and  Paternoster  with 
the  shibboleth  of  the  dram-shop  and  the  card- 
table. 

"  Take  care  !  take  care  !  There,  now  — Cre 
do  in  —  Pop  !  ting-a-ling-ling !  give  me  some 
of  that.  Cent-e-dize !  Why,  you  old  publican, 
this  wine  is  poisoned, —  I  know  your  tricks  !  — 
Sanctam  ecclesiam  catholicam  —  Well,  well,  we 
shall  see.  Imbecile !  to  have  a  tierce-major 
and  a  seven  of  hearts,  and  discard  the  seven  ! 


The  Notary  of  Perigueux        153 

By  St.  Anthony,  capot !  You  are  lurched,  — 
ha !  ha !  I  told  you  so.  I  knew  very  well,  — 
there,  —  there,  —  don't  interrupt  me  —  Carnis 
resurrectionem  et  vitam  eternam  !  " 

With  these  words  upon  his  lips,  the  poor 
wine-dealer  expired.  Meanwhile  the  notary 
sat  cowering  over  the  fire,  aghast  at  the  fearful 
scene  that  was  passing  before  him,  and  now 
and  then  striving  to  keep  up  his  courage  by  a 
glass  of  cognac.  Already  his  fears  were  on 
the  alert  ;  and  the  idea  of  contagion  flitted  to 
and  fro  through  his  mind.  In  order  to  quiet 
these  thoughts  of  evil  import,  he  lighted  his 
pipe  and  began  to  prepare  for  returning  home. 
At  that  moment  the  apothecary  turned  round 
to  him  and  said,  — 

"  Dreadful  sickly  time,  this  !  The  disorder 
seems  to  be  spreading." 

"  What  disorder  ? "  exclaimed  the  notary, 
with  a  movement  of  surprise. 

"Two  died  yesterday,  and  three  to-day," 
continued  the  apothecary,  without  answering 
the  question.  "  Very  sickly  time,  sir,  —  very." 

"  But  what  disorder  is  it  ?  What  disease 
has  carried  off  my  friend  here  so  suddenly  ? " 

"  What  disease  ?  Why,  scarlet  fever,  to  be 
sure." 


154       The  Notary  of  Perigueux 

"And  is  it  contagious  ?" 

"  Certainly ! " 

"  Then  I  am  a  dead  man ! "  exclaimed  the 
notary,  putting  his  pipe  into  his  waistcoat- 
pocket,  and  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  room  in  despair.  "I  am  a  dead  man ! 
Now  don't  deceive  me,  —  don't,  will  you  ? 
What  —  what  are  the  symptoms  ? " 

"A  sharp  burning  pain  in  the  right  side," 
said  the  apothecary. 

"  O,  what  a  fool  I  was  to  come  here ! " 

In  vain  did  the  housekeeper  and  the  apothe 
cary  strive  to  pacify  him ;  —  he  was  not  a  man 
to  be  reasoned  with  ;  he  answered  that  he 
knew  his  own  constitution  better  than  they 
did,  and  insisted  upon  going  home  without  de 
lay.  Unfortunately,  the  vehicle  he  came  in 
had  returned  to  the  city  ;  and  the  whole  neigh 
borhood  was  abed  and  asleep.  What  was  to 
be  done  ?  Nothing  in  the  world  but  to  take 
the  apothecary's  horse,  which  stood  hitched  at 
the  door,  patiently  waiting  his  master's  will. 

Well,  gentlemen,  as  there  was  no  remedy, 
our  notary  mounted  this  raw-boned  steed,  and 
set  forth  upon  his  homeward  journey.  The 
night  was  cold  and  gusty,  and  the  wind  right 
in  his  teeth.  Overhead  the  leaden  clouds 


The  Notary  of  Perigueux        155 

were  beating  to  and  fro,  and  through  them  the 
newly  risen  moon  seemed  to  be  tossing  and 
drifting  along  like  a  cock-boat  in  the  surf; 
now  swallowed  up  in  a  huge  billow  of  cloud, 
and  now  lifted  upon  its  bosom  and  dashed 
with  silvery  spray.  The  trees  by  the  road-side 
groaned  with  a  sound  of  evil  omen  ;  and  be 
fore  him  lay  three  mortal  miles,  beset  with  a 
thousand  imaginary  perils.  Obedient  to  the 
whip  and  spur,  the  steed  leaped  forward  by 
fits  and  starts,  now  dashing  away  in  a  tremen 
dous  gallop,  and  now  relaxing  into  a  long, 
hard  trot  ;  while  the  rider,  filled  with  symp 
toms  of  disease  and  dire  presentiments  of 
death,  urged  him  on,  as  if  he  were  fleeing  be 
fore  the  pestilence. 

In  this  way,  by  dint  of  whistling  and  shout 
ing,  and  beating  right  and  left,  one  mile  of  the 
fatal  three  was  safely  passed.  The  apprehen 
sions  of  the  notary  had  so  far  subsided,  that  he 
even  suffered  the  poor  horse  to  walk  up  hill  ; 
but  these  apprehensions  were  suddenly  re 
vived  again  with  tenfold  violence  by  a  sharp 
pain  in  the  right  side,  which  seemed  to  pierce 
him  like  a  needle. 

"  It  is  upon  me  at  last !  "  groaned  the  fear- 
stricken  man.  "  Heaven  be  merciful  to  me, 


156       The  Notary  of  Perigmux 

the  greatest  of  sinners  !  And  must  I  die  in  a 
ditch,  after  all  ?  He  !  get  up,  —  get  up ! " 

And  away  went  horse  and  rider  at  full 
speed,  —  hurry-scurry,  —  up  hill  and  down,  — 
panting  and  blowing  like  a  whirlwind.  At 
every  leap  the  pain  in  the  rider's  side  seemed 
to  increase.  At  first  it  was  a  little  point  like 
the  prick  of  a  needle,  —  then  it  spread  to  the 
size  of  a  half-franc  piece,  —  then  covered  a 
place  as  large  as  the  palm  of  your  hand.  It 
gained  upon  him  fast.  The  poor  man  groaned 
aloud  in  agony ;  faster  and  faster  sped  the 
horse  over  the  frozen  ground,  —  farther  and 
farther  spread  the  pain  over  his  side.  To 
complete  the  dismal  picture,  the  storm  com 
menced,  —  snow  mingled  with  rain.  But  snow, 
and  rain,  and  cold  were  naught  to  him  ;  for, 
though  his  arms  and  legs  were  frozen  to  ici 
cles,  he  felt  it  not ;  the  fatal  symptom  was  up 
on  him  ;  he  was  doomed  to  die,  —  not  of  cold, 
but  of  scarlet  fever  ! 

At  length,  he  knew  not  how,  more  dead 
than  alive,  he  reached  the  gate  of  the  city.  A 
band  of  ill-bred  dogs,  that  were  serenading  at 
a  corner  of  the  street,  seeing  the  notary  dash 
by,  joined  in  the  hue  and  cry,  and  ran  barking 
and  yelping;  at  his  heels.  It  was  now  late  at 


The  Notary  of  P'erigueux        157 

night,  and  only  here  and  there  a  solitary  lamp 
twinkled  from  an  upper  story.  But  on  went 
the  notary,  down  this  street  and  up  that,  till  at 
last  he  reached  his  own  door.  There  was  a 
light  in  his  wife's  bedroom.  The  good  wo 
man  came  to  the  window,  alarmed  at  such  a 
knocking,  and  howling,  and  clattering  at  her 
door  so  late  at  night ;  and  the  notary  was  too 
deeply  absorbed  in  his  own  sorrows  to  observe 
that  the  lamp  cast  the  shadow  of  two  heads  on 
the  window-curtain. 

"  Let  me  in  !  let  me  in  !  Quick  !  quick  !  " 
he  exclaimed,  almost  breathless  from  terror 
and  fatigue. 

"  Who  are  you,  that  come  to  disturb  a  lone 
woman  at  this  hour  of  the  night  ? "  cried  a 
sharp  voice  from  above.  "  Begone  about  your 
business,  and  let  quiet  people  sleep." 

"  Come  down  and  let  me  in  !  I  am  your 
husband.  Don't  you  know  my  voice  ?  Quick, 
I  beseech  you  ;  for  I  am  dying  here  in  the 
street ! " 

After  a  few  moments  of  delay  and  a  few 
more  words  of  parley,  the  door  was  opened, 
and  the  notary  stalked  into  his  domicile,  pale 
and  haggard  in  aspect,  and  as  stiff  and  straight 
as  a  ghost.  Cased  from  head  to  heel  in  an  ar- 


158       The  Notary  of  Perigueux 

mor  of  ice,  as  the  glare  of  the  lamp  fell  upon 
him,  he  looked  like  a  knight-errant  mailed  in 
steel.  But  in  one  place  his  armor  was  broken. 
On  his  right  side  was  a  circular  spot,  as  large 
as  the  crown  of  your  hat,  and  about  as  black  ! 

"  My  dear  wife  ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  more 
tenderness  than  he  had  exhibited  for  many 
years,  "  Reach  me  a  chair.  My  hours  are 
numbered.  I  am  a  dead  man  !  " 

Alarmed  at  these  exclamations,  his  wife 
stripped  off  his  overcoat.  Something  fell  from 
beneath  it,  and  was  dashed  to  pieces  on  the 
hearth.  It  was  the  notary's  pipe  !  He  placed 
his  hand  upon  his  side,  and,  lo  !  it  was  bare 
to  the  skin  !  Coat,  waistcoat,  and  linen  were 
burnt  through  and  through,  and  there  was  a 
blister  on  his  side  as  large  as  your  hand  ! 

The  mystery  was  soon  explained,  symptom 
and  all.  The  notary  had  put  his  pipe  into  his 
pocket  without  knocking  out  the  ashes  !  And 
so  my  story  ends. 


"  Is  that  all  ? "  asked  the  radical,  when  the 
story-teller  had  finished. 
"  That  is  all." 
"  Well,  what  does  your  story  prove  ? " 


The  Notary  of  Perigueux        159 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  All  I  know 
is  that  the  story  is  true." 

"  And  did  he  die  ? "  said  the  nice  little  man 
in  gosling-green. 

"  Yes  ;  he  died  afterwards,"  replied  the  sto 
ry-teller,  rather  annoyed  by  the  question. 

"And  what  did  he  die  of?  "  continued  gos 
ling-green,  following  him  up. 

"  What  did  he  die  of  ?  why,  he  died  —  of  a 
sudden ! " 


THE  JOURNEY   INTO   SPAIN 


A  Tissue  de  Pyver  que  le  joly  temps  de  primavere  commence,  et  qu'on 
-roll  a/bres  verdoyer,  fleurs  espanouir,  et  qu'on  oil  les  oisillons  chanter  en 
toute  joie  et  doulceur,  tant  que  les  verts  bocages  retentissent  de  leurs  sons 
et  que  cceurs  tristes  pensifs  y  dolens  s'en  esjouissent,  s'emeuvent  a  delaii- 
ser  deuil  et  toute  tristesse,  et  se  parforcent  a  valoir  niieux. 

LA  PLAISANTB  HISTOIRE  DE  GUERIN  DE  MONGLAVE. 


SOFT-BREATHING  Spring!  how  many 
pleasant  thoughts,  how  many  delightful 
recollections,  does  thy  name  awaken  in  the 
mind  of  a  traveller !  Whether  he  has  followed 
thee  by  the  banks  of  the  Loire  or  the  Guadal- 
quiver,  or  traced  thy  footsteps  slowly  climb 
ing  the  sunny  slope  of  Alp  or  Apennine,  the 
thought  of  thee  shall  summon  up  sweet  visions 
of  the  past,  and  thy  golden  sunshine  and  soft 
vapory  atmosphere  become  a  portion  of  his 
day-dreams  and  of  him.  Sweet  images  of 
thee,  and  scenes  that  have  oft  inspired  the 
poet's  song,  shall  mingle  in  his  recollections 
of  the  past.  The  shooting  of  the  tender  leaf, 
— the  sweetness  and  elasticity  of  the  air, — the 
blue  sky,  —  the  fleet-drifting  cloud,  —  and  the 
flocks  of  wild  fowl  wheeling  in  long-drawn 


The  Journey  into  Spain          161 

phalanx  through  the  air,  and  screaming  from 
their  dizzy  height,  —  all  these  shall  pass  like  a 
dream  before  his  imagination, 

"And  gently  o'er  his  memory  come  at  times 
A  glimpse  of  joys  that  had  their  birth  in  thee, 
Like  a  brief  strain  of  some  forgotten  tune. " 

It  was  at  the  opening  of  this  delightful  sea 
son  of  the  year  that  I  passed  through  the  South 
of  France,  and  took  the  road  of  St.  Jean  de  Luz 
for  the  Spanish  frontier.  I  left  Bordeaux  amid 
all  the  noise  and  gayety  of  the  last  scene  of 
Carnival.  The  streets  and  public  walks  of  the 
city  were  full  of  merry  groups  in  masks,  —  at 
every  corner  crowds  were  listening  to  the  dis 
cordant  music  of  the  wandering  ballad-singer  ; 
and  grotesque  figures,  mounted  on  high  stilts, 
and  dressed  in  the  garb  of  the  peasants  of 
the  Landes  of  Gascony,  were  stalking  up  and 
down  like  so  many  long-legged  cranes  ;  others 
were  amusing  themselves  with  the  tricks  and 
grimaces  of  little  monkeys,  disguised  like  little 
men,  bowing  to  the  ladies,  and  figuring  away 
in  red  coats  and  ruffles  ;  and  here  and  there  a 
band  of  chimney-sweeps  were  staring  in  stupid 
wonder  at  the  miracles  of  a  showman's  box. 
In  a  word,  all  was  so  full  of  mirth  and  merri- 
make,  that  even  beggary  seemed  to  have  for- 


1 62         The  Journey  into  Spain 

gotten  that  it  was  wretched,  and  gloried  in  the 
ragged  masquerade  of  one  poor  holiday. 

To  this  scene  of  noise  and  gayety  succeeded 
the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  Landes  of  Gas- 
cony.  The  road  from  Bordeaux  to  Bayonne 
winds  along  through  immense  pine-forests  and 
sandy  plains,  spotted  here  and  there  with  a 
dingy  little  hovel,  and  the  silence  is  inter 
rupted  only  by  the  dismal  hollow  roar  of  the 
wind  among  the  melancholy  and  majestic 
pines.  Occasionally,  however,  the  way  is  enli 
vened  by  a  market-town  or  a  straggling  vil 
lage  ;  and  I  still  recollect  the  feelings  of  de 
light  which  I  experienced,  when,  just  after  sun 
set,  we  passed  through  the  romantic  town  of 
Roquefort,  built  upon  the  sides  of  the  green 
valley  of  the  Douze,  which  has  scooped  out  a 
verdant  hollow  for  it  to  nestle  in,  amid  those 
barren  tracts  of  sand. 

On  leaving  Bayonne,  the  scene  assumes  a 
character  of  greater  beauty  and  sublimity.  To 
the  vast  forests  of  the  Landes  of  Gascony  suc 
ceeds  a  scene  of  picturesque  beauty,  delightful 
to  the  traveller's  eye.  Before  him  rise  the 
snowy  Pyrenees,  —  a  long  line  of  undulating 
hills,— 

"  Bounded  afar  by  peak  aspiring  bold, 
-.ike  giant  capped  with  helm  of  burnished  gold." 


The  Journey  into  Spain         163 

To  the  left,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  stretch 
the  delicious  valleys  of  the  Nive  and  Adour ; 
and  to  the  right  the  sea  flashes  along  the  peb 
bly  margin  of  its  silver  beach,  forming  a  thou 
sand  little  bays  and  inlets,  or  comes  tumbling 
in  among  the  cliffs  of  a  rock-bound  coast,  and 
beats  against  its  massive  barriers  with  a  dis 
tant,  hollow,  continual  roar. 

Should  these  pages  meet  the  eye  of  any  soli 
tary  traveller  who  is  journeying  into  Spain  by 
the  road  I  here  speak  of,  I  would  advise  him 
to  travel  from  Bayonne  to  St.  Jean  de  Luz  on 
horseback.  At  the  gate  of  Bayonne  he  will 
find  a  steed  ready  caparisoned  for  him,  with  a 
dark-eyed  Basque  girl  for  his  companion  and 
guide,  who  is  to  sit  beside  him  upon  the  same 
horse.  This  style  of  travelling  is,  I  believe, 
peculiar  to  the  Basque  provinces  ;  at  all  events, 
I  have  seen  it  nowhere  else.  The  saddle  is 
constructed  with  a  large  frame-work  extend 
ing  on  each  side,  and  covered  with  cushions ; 
and  the  traveller  and  his  guide,  being  placed 
on  the  opposite  extremities,  serve  as  a  balance 
to  each  other.  We  overtook  many  travellers 
mounted  in  this  way,  and  I  could  not  help 
thinking  it  a  mode  of  travelling  far  prefer 
able  to  being  cooped  up  in  a  diligence.  Th^ 


164         The  Journey  into  Spain 

Basque  girls  are  generally  beautiful ;  and 
there  was  one  of  these  merry  guides  we  met 
upon  the  road  to  Bidart  whose  image  haunts 
me  still.  She  had  large  and  expressive  black 
eyes,  teeth  like  pearls,  a  rich  and  sunburnt 
complexion,  and  hair  of  a  glossy  blackness, 
parted  on  the  forehead,  and  falling  down  be 
hind  in  a  large  braid,  so  long  as  almost  to 
touch  the  ground  with  the  little  ribbon  that 
confined  it  at  the  end.  She  wore  the  common 
dress  of  the  peasantry  of  the  South  of  France, 
and  a  large  gypsy  straw  hat  was  thrown  back 
over  her  shoulder,  and  tied  by  a  ribbon  about 
her  neck.  There  was  hardly  a  dusty  traveller 
in  the  coach  who  did  not  envy  her  companion 
the  seat  he  occupied  beside  her. 

Just  at  nightfall  we  entered  the  town  of  St. 
Jean  de  Luz,  and  dashed  down  its  narrow 
streets  at  full  gallop.  The  little  madcap  pos 
tilion  cracked  his  knotted  whip  incessantly, 
and  the  sound  echoed  back  from  the  high 
dingy  walls  like  the  report  of  a  pistol.  The 
coach-wheels  nearly  touched  the  houses  on 
each  side  of  us  ;  the  idlers  in  the  street 
jumped  right  and  left  to  save  themselves  ;  win 
dow-shutters  flew  open  in  all  directions  ;  a 
thousand  heads  popped  out  from  cellar  and 


The  Journey  into  Spain         165 

upper  story  ;  "  Sacr-r-rt?  mdtin  !  "  shouted  the 
postilion,  —  and  we  rattled  on  like  an  earth 
quake. 

St.  Jean  de  Luz  is  a  smoky  little  fishing- 
town,  situated  on  the  low  grounds  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Nivelle,  and  a  bridge  connects  it 
with  the  faubourg  of  Sibourne,  which  stands 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river.  I  had  no 
time,  however,  to  note  the  peculiarities  of  the 
place,  for  I  was  whirled  out  of  it  with  the  same 
speed  and  confusion  with  which  I  had  been 
whirled  in,  and  I  can  only  recollect  the  sweep 
of  the  road  across  the  Nivelle,  —  the  church  of 
Sibourne  by  the  water's  edge,  —  the  narrow 
streets,  —  the  smoky-looking  houses  with  red 
window-shutters,  and  "  a  very  ancient  and  fish- 
like  smell." 

I  passed  by  moonlight  the  little  river  Bi- 
dasoa,  which  forms  the  boundary  between 
France  and  Spain  ;  and  when  the  morning 
broke,  found  myself  far  up  among  the  moun 
tains  of  San  Salvador,  the  most  westerly  links 
of  the  great  Pyrenean  chain.  The  mountains 
around  me  were  neither  rugged  nor  precipi 
tous,  but  they  rose  one  above  another  in  a 
long,  majestic  swell,  and  the  trace  of  the 
ploughshare  was  occasionally  visible  to  their 


i6b        The  Journey  into  Spain 

summits.  They  seemed  entirely  destitute  of 
trees ;  and  as  the  season  of  vegetation  had 
not  yet  commenced,  their  huge  outlines  lay 
black,  and  barren,  and  desolate  against  the 
sky.  But  it  was  a  glorious  morning,  and 
the  sun  rose  up  into  a  cloudless  heaven, 
and  poured  a  flood  of  gorgeous  splendor  over 
the  mountain  landscape,  as  if  proud  of  the 
realm  he  shone  upon.  The  scene  was  enliv 
ened  by  the  dashing  of  a  swollen  mountain- 
brook,  whose  course  we  followed  for  miles 
down  the  valley,  as  it  leaped  onward  to  its 
journey's  end,  now  breaking  into  a  white  cas 
cade,  and  now  foaming  and  chafing  beneath 
a  rustic  bridge.  Now  and  then  we  drove 
through  a  dilapidated  town,  with  a  group  of 
idlers  at  every  corner,  wrapped  in  tattered 
brown  cloaks,  and  smoking  their  little  paper 
cigars  in  the  sun  ;  then  would  succeed  a  deso 
late  tract  of  country,  cheered  only  by  the 
tinkle  of  a  mule-bell,  or  the  song  of  a  mule 
teer  ;  then  we  would  meet  a  solitary  traveller 
mounted  on  horseback,  and  wrapped  in  the 
ample  folds  of  his  cloak,  with  a  gun  hanging 
at  the  pommel  of  his  saddle.  Occasionally, 
too,  among  the  bleak,  inhospitable  hills,  we 
passed  a  rude  little  chapel,  with  a  cluster  of 


The  Journey  into  Spain         167 

ruined  cottages  around  it ;  and  whenever  our 
carriage  stopped  at  the  relay,  or  loitered  slow 
ly  up  the  hillside,  a  crowd  of  children  would 
gather  around  us,  with  little  images  and  cruci 
fixes  for  sale,  curiously  ornamented  with  rib 
bons  and  bits  of  tawdry  finery. 

A  day's  journey  from  the  frontier  brought 
us  to  Vitoria,  where  the  diligence  stopped  for 
the  night.  I  spent  the  scanty  remnant  of  day 
light  in  rambling  about  the  streets  of  the  city, 
with  no  other  guide  than  the  whim  of  the  mo 
ment.  Now  I  plunged  down  a  dark  and  nar 
row  alley,  now  emerged  into  a  wide  street  or  a 
spacious  market-place,  and  now  aroused  the 
drowsy  echoes  of  a  church  or  cloister  with 
the  sound  of  my  intruding  footsteps.  But  de 
scriptions  of  churches  and  public  squares  are 
dull  and  tedious  matters  for  those  readers  who 
are  in  search  of  amusement,  and  not  of  in 
struction  ;  and  if  any  one  has  accompanied 
me  thus  far  on  my  fatiguing  journey  towards 
the  Spanish  capital,  I  will  readily  excuse  him 
from  the  toil  of  an  evening  ramble  through 
the  streets  of  Vitoria. 

On  the  following  morning  we  left  the  town, 
long  before  daybreak,  and  during  our  fore 
noon's  journey  the  postilion  drew  up  at  an  inn, 


1 68         The  Journey  into  Spain 

on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Sierra  de  San 
Lorenzo,  in  the  province  of  Old  Castile.  The 
house  was  an  old,  dilapidated  tenement,  built 
of  rough  stone,  and  coarsely  plastered  upon 
the  outside.  The  tiled  roof  had  long  been 
the  sport  of  wind  and  rain,  the  motley  coat 
of  plaster  was  broken  and  time-worn,  and  the 
whole  building  sadly  out  of  repair ;  though 
the  fanciful  mouldings  under  the  eaves,  and 
the  curiously  carved  wood-work  that  support 
ed  the  little  balcony  over  the  principal  en 
trance,  spoke  of  better  days  gone  by.  The 
whole  building  reminded  me  of  a  dilapidated 
Spanish  Don,  down  at  the  heel  and  out  at  el 
bows,  but  with  here  and  there  a  remnant  of 
former  magnificence  peeping  through  the  loop 
holes  of  his  tattered  cloak. 

A  wide  gateway  ushered  the  traveller  into 
the  interior  of  the  building,  and  conducted 
him  to  a  low-roofed  apartment,  paved  with 
round  stones,  and  serving  both  as  a  court-yard 
and  a  stable.  It  seemed  to  be  a  neutral 
ground  for  man  and  beast,  —  a  little  republic, 
where  horse  and  rider  had  common  privileges, 
and  mule  and  muleteer  lay  cheek  by  jowl.  In 
one  corner  a  poor  jackass  was  patiently  de 
vouring  a  bundle  of  musty  straw,  —  in  an* 


The  Journey  into  Spain          169 

other,  its  master  lay  sound  asleep,  with  his 
saddle-cloth  for  a  pillow ;  here  a  group  of 
muleteers  were  quarrelling  over  a  pack  of 
dirty  cards,  —  and  there  the  village  barber, 
with  a  self-important  air,  stood  laving  the  Al 
calde's  chin  from  the  helmet  of  Mambrino.  On 
the  wall,  a  little  taper  glimmered  feebly  before 
an  image  of  St.  Anthony  ;  directly  opposite 
these  a  leathern  wine-bottle  hung  by  the  neck 
from  a  pair  of  ox-horns  ;  and  the  pavement 
below  was  covered  with  a  curious  medley  of 
boxes,  and  bags,  and  cloaks,  and  pack-saddles, 
and  sacks  of  grain,  and  skins  of  wine,  and  all 
kinds  of  lumber. 

A  small  door  upon  the  right  led  us  into  the 
inn-kitchen.  It  was  a  room  about  ten  feet 
square,  and  literally  all  chimney ;  for  the 
hearth  was  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  and  the 
walls  sloped  upward  in  the  form  of  a  long,  nar 
row  pyramid,  with  an  opening  at  the  top  for 
the  escape  of  the  smoke.  Quite  round  this  lit 
tle  room  ran  a  row  of  benches,  upon  which  sat 
one  or  two  grave  personages  smoking  paper 
cigars.  Upon  the  hearth  blazed  a  handful  of 
fagots,  whose  bright  flame  danced  merrily 
among  a  motley  congregation  of  pots  and  ket 
tles,  and  a  long  wreath  of  smoke  wound  lazily 
8 


170        The  Journey  into  Spain 

up  through  the  huge  tunnel  of  the  roof  above. 
The  walls  were  black  with  soot,  and  orna 
mented  with  sundry  legs  of  bacon  and  festoons 
of  sausages  ;  and  as  there  were  no  windows  in 
this  dingy  abode,  the  only  light  which  cheered 
the  darkness  within,  came  flickering  from  the 
fire  upon  the  hearth,  and  the  smoky  sunbeams 
that  peeped  down  the  long-necked  chimney. 

I  had  not  been  long  seated  by  the  fire,  when 
the  tinkling  of  mule-bells,  the  clatter  of  hoofs, 
and  the  hoarse  voice  of  a  muleteer  in  the 
outer  apartment,  announced  the  arrival  of  new 
guests.  A  few  moments  afterward  the  kitch 
en-door  opened,  and  a  person  entered,  whose 
appearance  strongly  arrested  my  attention.  It 
was  a  tall,  athletic  figure,  with  the  majestic 
carriage  of  a  grandee,  and  a  dark,  sunburnt 
countenance,  that  indicated  an  age  of  about 
fifty  years.  His  dress  was  singular,  and  such 
as  I  had.  not  before  seen.  He  wore  a  round 
hat  with  wide,  flapping  brim,  from  beneath 
which  his  long,  black  hair  hung  in  curls  upon 
his  shoulders ;  a  leather  jerkin,  with  cloth 
sleeves,  descended  to  his  hips ;  around  his 
waist  was  closely  buckled  a  leather  belt,  with  a 
cartouch-box  on  one  side  ;  a  pair  of  loose 
trousers  of  black  serge  hung  in  ample  folds  to 


The  Journey  into  Spain         171 

the  knees,  around  which  they  were  closely 
gathered  by  embroidered  garters  of  blue  silk  ; 
and  black  broadcloth  leggins,  buttoned  close 
to  the  calves,  and  strapped  over  a  pair  of 
brown  leather  shoes,  completed  the  singular 
dress  of  the  stranger.  He  doffed  his  hat  as  he 
entered,  and,  saluting  the  company  with  a 
"  Dios  guarde  a  Ustedes,  caballeros  "  (God  guard 
you,  Gentlemen),  took  a  seat  by  the  fire,  and  en 
tered  into  conversation  with  those  around  him. 

As  my  curiosity  was  not  a  little  excited  by 
the  peculiar  dress  of  this  person,  I  inquired  of 
a  travelling  companion,  who  sat  at  my  elbow, 
who  and  what  this  new-comer  was.  From 
him  I  learned  that  he  was  a  muleteer  of  the 
Maragaten'a,  —  a  name  given  to  a  cluster  of 
small  towns  which  lie  in  the  mountainous 
country  between  Astorga  and  Villafranca,  in 
the  western  corner  of  the  kingdom  of  Leon. 

"Nearly  every  province  in  Spain,"  said  he, 
"  has  its  peculiar  costume,  as  you  will  see, 
when  you  have  advanced  farther  into  our  coun 
try.  For  instance,  the  Catalonians  wear  crim 
son  caps,  hanging  down  upon  the  shoulder 
like  a  sack  ;  wide  pantaloons  of  green  velvet, 
long  enough  in  the  waistband  to  cover  the 
whole  breast ;  and  a  little  strip  of  a  jacket, 


172         The  Journey  into  Spain 

made  of  the  same  material,  and  so  short  as  to 
bring  the  pocket  directly  under  the  armpit. 
The  Valencians,  on  the  contrary,  go  almost 
naked  :  a  linen  shirt,  white  linen  trousers, 
reaching  no  lower  than  the  knees,  and  a  pair 
of  coarse  leather  sandals  complete  their  simple 
garb ;  it  is  only  in  mid-winter  that  they  in 
dulge  in  the  luxury  of  a  jacket.  The  most 
beautiful  and  expensive  costume,  however,  is 
that  of  Andalusia  ;  it  consists  of  a  velvet  jack 
et,  faced  with  rich  and  various-colored  em 
broidery,  and  covered  with  tassels  and  silken 
cord  ;  a  waistcoat  of  some  gay  color  ;  a  silken 
handkerchief  round  the  neck,  and  a  crimson 
sash  round  the  waist ;  breeches  that  button 
down  each  side  ;  gaiters  and  shoes  of  white 
leather ;  and  a  handkerchief  of  bright-colored 
silk  wound  about  the  head  like  a  turban,  and 
surmounted  by  a  velvet  cap  or  a  little  round 
hat,  with  a  wide  band,  and  an  abundance  of 
silken  loops  and  tassels.  The  Old  Castilians 
are  more  grave  in  their  attire :  they  wear  a 
leather  breastplate  instead  of  a  jacket,  breeches 
and  leggins,  and  a  montera  cap.  This  fellow 
is  a  Maragato  ;  and  in  the  villages  of  the  Mar- 
agateria  the  costume  varies  a  little  from  the 
rest  of  Leon  and  Castile." 


The  Journey  into  Spain         173 

"  If  he  is  indeed  a  Maragato,"  said  I,  jesting 
ly,  "who  knows  but  he  may  be  a  descendant 
of  the  muleteer  who  behaved  so  naughtily  at 
Cacabelos,  as  related  in  the  second  chapter  of 
the  veracious  history  of  Gil  Bias  de  Santilla- 
na  ? " 

"  I  Quien  sabe  f  "  was  the  reply.  "  Notwith 
standing  the  pride  which  even  the  meanest 
Castilian  feels  in  counting  over  a  long  line  of 
good-for-nothing  ancestors,  the  science  of  gen 
ealogy  has  become  of  late  a  very  intricate 
study  in  Spain." 

Here  our  conversation  was  cut  short  by  the 
Mayoral  of  the  diligence,  who  came  to  tell  us 
that  the  mules  were  waiting  ;  and  before  many 
hours  had  elapsed,  we  were  scrambling  through 
the  square  of  the  ancient  city  of  Burgos.  On 
the  morrow  we  crossed  the  river  Duero  and 
the  Guadarrama  Mountains,  and  early  in  the 
afternoon  entered  the  "  Heroica  Villa,"  of  Ma 
drid,  by  the  Puerta  de  Fuencarral. 


SPAIN 


Santiago  y  cierra  Espana  ! 

SPANISH  WAR-CRT. 


IT  is  a  beautiful  morning  in  June;  —  so 
beautiful,  that  I  almost  fancy  myself  in 
Spain.  The  tesselated  shadow  of  the  honey 
suckle  lies  motionless  upon  the  floor,  as  if  it 
were  a  figure  in  the  carpet  ;  and  through  the 
open  window  comes  the  fragrance  of  the  wild- 
brier  and  the  mock-orange,  reminding  me  of 
that  soft,  sunny  clime  where  the  very  air  is 
laden,  like  the  bee,  with  sweetness,  and  the 
south  wind 

."Comes  over  gardens,  and  the  flowers 
That  kissed  it  are  betrayed. " 

The  birds  are  carolling  in  the  trees,  and  their 
shadows  flit  across  the  window  as  they  dart  to 
and  fro  in  the  sunshine  ;  while  the  murmur  of 
the  bee,  the  cooing  of  doves  from  the  eaves, 
and  the  whirring  of  a  little  humming-bird  that 
has  its  nest  in  the  honeysuckle,  send  up  a 
sound  of  joy  to  meet  the  rising  sun.  How  like 


Spain  175 

the  climate  of  the  South  !  How  like  a  sum 
mer  morning  in  Spain ! 

My  recollections  of  Spain  are  of  the  most 
lively  and  delightful  kind.  The  character  of 
the  soil  and  of  its  inhabitants,  —  the  stormy 
mountains  and  free  spirits  of  the  North,  — the 
prodigal  luxuriance  and  gay  voluptuousness  of 
the  South,  —  the  history  and  traditions  of  the 
past,  resembling  more  the  fables'  of  romance 
than  the  solemn  chronicle  of  events,  —  a  soft 
and  yet  majestic  language  that  falls  like  mar 
tial  music  on  the  ear,  and  a  literature  rich  in 
the  attractive  lore  of  poetry  and  fiction, — 
these,  but  not  these  alone,  are  my  reminis 
cences  of  Spain.  With  these  I  recall  the 
thousand  little  circumstances  and  enjoyments 
which  always  give  a  coloring  to  our  recollec 
tions  of  the  past  ;  the  clear  sky,  —  the  pure, 
balmy  air,  —  the  delicious  fruits  and  flowers,  — 
the  wild-fig  and  the  aloe,  and  the  olive  by 
the  wayside,  —  all,  all  that  makes  existence 
so  joyous,  and  renders  the  sons  and  daugh 
ters  of  that  clime  the  children  of  impulse  and 
sensation. 

As  I  write  these  words,  a  shade  of  sadness 
steals  over  me.  When  I  think  what  that  glo 
rious  land  might  be,  and  what  it  is,  —  wkat 


1 76  Spain 

nature  intended  it  should  be,  and  what  man 
has  made  it,  —  my  very  heart  sinks  within  me. 
My  mind  instinctively  reverts  from  the  degra 
dation  of  the  present  to  the  glory  of  the  past ; 
or,  looking  forward  with  strong  misgivings,  but 
with  yet  stronger  hopes,  interrogates  the  future. 

The  burnished  armor  of  the  Cid  stands  in 
the  archives  of  the  royal  museum  of  Madrid, 
and  there,  too,  is  seen  the  armor  of  Ferdinand 
and  of  Isabel,  of  Guzman  the  Good  and  of  Gon- 
zalo  de  Cordova,  and  other  early  champions 
of  Spain  ;  but  what  hand  shall  now  wield  the 
sword  of  the  Campeador,  or  lift  up  the  banner 
of  Leon  and  Castile  ?  The  ruins  of  Christian 
castle  and  Moorish  alcazar  still  look  forth  from 
the  hills  of  Spain  ;  but  where,  O  where  is  the 
spirit  of  freedom  that  once  fired  the  children 
of  the  Goth  ?  Where  is  the  spirit  of  Bernardo 
del  Carpio,  and  Perez  de  Vargas,  and  Alonzo 
de  Aguilar  ?  Shall  it  forever  sleep  ?  Shall  it 
never  again  beat  high  in  the  hearts  of  their 
sons  ?  Shall  the  descendants  of  Pelayo  bow 
forever  beneath  an  iron  yoke,  "like  cattle 
whose  despair  is  dumb  ?  " 

The  dust  of  the  Cid  lies  mingling  with  the 
dust  of  Old  Castile  ;  but  his  spirit  is  not  bur 
ied  with  his  ashes.  It  sleeps,  but  is  not  dead. 


Spain  177 

The  day  will  come,  when  the  foot  of  the  tyrant 
shall  be  shaken  from  the  neck  of  Spain  ;  when 
a  brave  and  generous  people,  though  now  igno 
rant,  degraded,  and  much  abused,  shall  "  know 
their  rights,  and  knowing  dare  maintain." 

Of  the  national  character  of  Spain  I  have 
brought  away  this  impression  ;  that  its  promi 
nent  traits  are  a  generous  pride  of  birth,  a 
superstitious  devotion  to  the  dogmas  of  the 
Church,  and  an  innate  dignity,  which  exhibits 
itself  even  in  the  common  and  every-day  em 
ployments  of  life.  Castilian  pride  is  proverb 
ial.  A  beggar  wraps  his  tattered  cloak  around 
him  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  Roman  senator  ; 
and  a  muleteer  bestrides  his  beast  of  burden 
with  the  air  of  a  grandee. 

I  have  thought,  too,  that  there  was  a  tinge 
of  sadness  in  the  Spanish  character.  The  na 
tional  music  of  the  land  is  remarkable  for  its 
melancholy  tone  ;  and  at  times  the  voice  of  a 
peasant,  singing  amid  the  silence  and  solitude 
of  the  mountains,  falls  upon  the  ear  like  a  fu 
neral  chant.  Even  a  Spanish  holiday  wears  a 
look  of  sadness,  —  a  circumstance  which  some 
writers  attribute  to  the  cruel  and  overbearing 
spirit  of  the  municipal  laws.  "On  the  greatest 
festivals,"  says  Jovellanos,  "  instead  of  that 


1 78  Spain 

boisterous  merriment  and  noise  which  should 
bespeak  the  joy  of  the  inhabitants,  there 
reigns  throughout  the  streets  and  market 
places  a  slothful  inactivity,  a  gloomy  stillness, 
which  cannot  be  remarked  without  mingled 
emotions  of  surprise  and  pity.  The  few  per 
sons  who  leave  their  houses  seem  to  be  driven 
from  them  by  listlessness,  and  dragged  as  far 
as  the  threshold,  the  market,  or  the  church- 
door  ;  there,  muffled  in  their  cloaks,  leaning 
against  a  corner,  seated  on  a  bench,  or  loung 
ing  to  and  fro,  without  object,  aim,  or  pur 
pose,  they  pass  their  hours,  their  whole  even 
ings,  without  mirth,  recreation,  or  amusement. 
When  you  add  to  this  picture  the  dreariness 
and  filth  of  the  villages,  the  poor  and  slovenly 
dress  of  the  inhabitants,  the  gloominess  and 
silence  of  their  air,  the  laziness,  the  want  of 
concert  and  union  so  striking  everywhere,  who 
but  would  be  astonished,  who  but  would  be 
afflicted  by  so  mournful  a  phenomenon  ?  This 
is  not,  indeed,  the  place  to  expose  the  errors 
which  conspire  to  produce  it ;  but,  whatever 
those  errors  may  be,  one  point  is  clear,  —  that 
they  are  all  to  be  found  in  the  laws  !  "  * 

*  Informe  dado  a  la  Real  Academia  de  Historia  sobre  Jue- 
gos,  Espectaculos,  y  Diversiones  Piiblicas. 


Spain  1 79 

Of  the  same  serious,  sombre  character  is  the 
favorite  national  sport,  —  the  bull-fight.  It  is 
a  barbarous  amusement,  but  of  all  others  the 
most  exciting,  the  most  spirit-stirring  ;  and 
in  Spain,  the  most  popular.  "  If  Rome  lived 
content  with  bread  and  arms,"  says  the  author 
I  have  just  quoted,  in  a  spirited  little  discourse 
entitled  Pan  y  Toros,  "  Madrid  lives  content 
with  bread  and  bulls." 

Shall  I  describe  a  Spanish  bull-fight  ?  No. 
It  has  been  so  often  and  so  well  described  by 
other  pens  that  mine  shall  not  undertake  it, 
though  it  is  a  tempting  theme.  I  cannot, 
however,  refuse  myself  the  pleasure  of  quoting 
here  a  few  lines  from  one  of  the  old  Spanish 
ballads  upon  this  subject.  It  is  entitled  "  The 
Bull-fight  of  Ganzul."  The  description  of  the 
bull,  which  is  contained  in  the  passage  I  here 
extract,  is  drawn  with  a  master's  hand.  It  is 
rather  a  paraphrase  than  a  translation,  by  Mr. 
Lockhart. 

"  From  Guadiana  comes  he  not,  he  comes  not  from  Xenil, 
From  Guadalarif  of  the  plain,  nor  Barves  of  the  hill ; 
But  where  from  out  the  forest  burst  Xarama's  waters  clear, 
Beneath  the  oak-trees  was  he  nursed,  this  proud  and  stately 
steer. 

"  Dark  is  his  hide  on  either  side,  but  the  blood  within  doth  boil, 
And  the  dun  hide  glows,  as  if  on  fire,  as  he  paws  to  the  tur 
moil. 


1 80  Spain 


His  eyes  are  jet,  and  they  are  set  in  crystal  rings  of  snow  ; 
But  now  they  stare  with  one  red  glare  of  brass  upon  the 
foe. 

"Upon  the  forehead  of  the  bull  the  horns  stand  close  and 

near, 
From  out  the  broad  and  wrinkled  skull  like  daggers  they 

appear ; 

His  neck  is  massy,  like  the  trunk  of  some  old,  knotted  tree, 
Whereon  the  monster's  shaggy  mane,  like  billows  curled,  ye 

see. 

"  His  legs  are  short,  his  hams  are  thick,  his  hoofs  are  black 

as  night ; 
Like  a  strong  flail  he  holds  his  tail,  in  fierceness  of  his 

might ; 
Like  something  molten  out  of  iron,  or  hewn  from  forth  the 

rock, 
Harpado  of  Xarama  stands,  to  bide  the  Alcayde's  shock. 

"  Now  stops  the  drum,  —  close,  close  they  come  ;  thrice  meet 

and  thrice  give  back  ; 
The  white  foam  of  Harpado  lies  on  the  charger's  breast  of 

black  ; 

The  white  foam  of  the  charger  on  Harpado's  front  of  dun ;  — 
Once  more  advance  upon  his  lance,  —  once  more,  thou  fear 
less  one ! " 

There  are  various  circumstances  closely 
connected  with  the  train  of  thought  I  have 
here  touched  upon  ;  but  I  forbear  to  mention 
them,  for  fear  of  drawing  out  this  chapter  to 


Spain  1 8 1 

too  great  a  length.  Some  of  them  will  natu 
rally  find  a  place  hereafter.  Meanwhile  let  us 
turn  the  leaf  to  a  new  chapter,  and  to  subjects 
of  a  livelier  nature. 


A  TAILOR'S   DRAWER 


Nedyls,  threde,  thymbell,  shers,  and  all  suche  knackcs. 

THE  FOUK  Ps 


A  TAILOR'S  drawer,  did  you  say  ? 
Yes  ;  a  tailor's  drawer.  It  is,  indeed, 
rather  a  quaint  rubric  for  a  chapter  in  the  pil 
grim's  breviary ;  albeit  it  well  befits  the  mot 
ley  character  of  the  following  pages.  It  is  a 
title  which  the  Spaniards  give  to  a  desulto 
ry  discourse,  wherein  various  and  discordant 
themes  are  touched  upon,  and  which  is 
crammed  full  of  little  shreds  and  patches  of 
erudition  ;  and  certainly  it  is  not  inappropri 
ate  to  a  chapter  whose  contents  are  of  every 
shape  and  hue,  and  "do  no  more  adhere  and 
keep  pace  together  than  the  hundredth  psalm 
to  the  tune  of  Green  Sleeves." 

n. 

IT  is  recorded  in  the  Adventures  of  Gil  Bias 
de  Santillana,  that,  when  this  renowned  per 
sonage  first  visited  the  city  of  Madrid,  he  took 


A    Tailor's  Drawer  183 

lodgings  at  the  house  of  Mateo  Melandez,  in 
the  Puerta  del  Sol.  In  choosing  a  place  of 
abode  in  the  Spanish  court,  I  followed,  as  far 
as  practicable,  thi?  illustrious  example  ;  but,  as 
the  kind-hearted  Mateo  had  been  long  gath 
ered  to  his  fathers,  I  was  content  to  take  up 
my  residence  in  the  hired  house  of  Valentin 
Gonzalez,  at  the  foot  of  the  Calle  de  la  Mon- 
tera.  My  apartments  were  in  the  third  story, 
above  the  dust,  though  not  beyond  the  rattle, 
of  the  street  ;  and  my  balconies  looked  down 
into  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  the  heart  of  Madrid, 
through  which  circulates  the  living  current  of 
its  population  at  least  once  every  twenty-four 
hours. 

The  Puerta  del  Sol  is  a  public  square,  from 
which  diverge  the  five  principal  streets  of  the 
metropolis.  It  is  the  great  rendezvous  of 
grave  and  gay,  —  of  priest  and  layman,  —  of 
gentle  and  simple,  —  the  mart  of  business  and 
of  gossip,  —  the  place  where  the  creditor  seeks 
his  debtor,  where  the  lawyer  seeks  his  client, 
where  the  stranger  seeks  amusement,  where 
the  friend  seeks  his  friend,  and  the  foe  his 
foe  ;  where  the  idler  seeks  the  sun  in  winter, 
and  the  shade  in  summer,  and  the  busybody 
seeks  the  daily  news,  and  picks  up  the  crumbs 


184  A    Tailor's  Drawer 

of  gossip  to  fly  away  with  them  in  his  beak  to 
the  tertulia  of  Dona  Paquita  ! 

Tell  me,  ye  who  have  sojourned  in  foreign 
lands,  and  know  in  what  bubbles  a  traveller's 
happiness  consists,  —  is  it  not  a  blessing  to 
have  your  window  overlook  a  scene  like  this  ? 

in. 

THERE,  —  take  that  chair  upon  the  balcony, 
and  let  us  look  down  upon  the  busy  scene 
beneath  us.  What  a  continued  roar  the 
crowded  thoroughfare  sends  up !  Though 
three  stories  high,  we  can  hardly  hear  the 
sound  of  our  own  voices  !  The  London  cries 
are  whispers,  when  compared  with  the  cries  of 
Madrid. 

See,  —  yonder  stalks  a  gigantic  peasant  of 
New  Castile,  with  a  montera  cap,  brown  jacket 
and  breeches,  and  coarse  blue  stockings,  forc 
ing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  leading  a 
donkey  laden  with  charcoal,  whose  sonorous 
bray  is  in  unison  with  the  harsh  voice  of  his 
master.  Close  at  his  elbow  goes  a  rosy- 
cheeked  damsel,  selling  calico.  She  is  an 
Asturian  from  the  mountains  of  Santander. 
How  do  you  know  ?  By  her  short  yellow  pet 
ticoats, — her  blue  bodice, — her  coral  necklace 


A    Tailor's  Drawer  185 

^ 

and   ear-rings.     Through    the   middle   of  the 

square  struts  a  peasant  of  Old  Castile,  with 
his  yellow  leather  jerkin  strapped  about  his 
waist,  —  his  brown  leggins  and  his  blue  gar 
ters,  —  driving  before  him  a  flock  of  gabbling 
turkeys,  (and  crying,  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
"  Pao,  pao,  pavitos,  paos  !  "J  Next  comes  a 
lencian,  with  his  loose  linen  trousers  and  san 
dal  shoon,  holding  a  huge  sack  of  watermelons 
upon  his  shoulder  with  his  left  hand,  and  with 
his  right  balancing  high  in  air  a  specimen  of 
the  luscious  fruit,  upon  which  is  perched  a  little 
pyramid  of  the  crimson  pulp,  while  he  tempts 
the  passers-by  with  "  A  cala,  y  calando;  una 
sandia  vendo-o-o.  Si  esto  es  sangre!"  (By  the 
slice,  —  come  and  try  it,  —  watermelon  for 
sale.  This  is  blood!)  His  companion  near 
him  has  a  pair  of  scales  thrown  over  his  shoul 
der,  and  holds  both  arms  full  of  muskmelons. 
He  chimes  into  the  harmonious  ditty  with 
"  Melo  —  melo-o-o  —  meloncitos  ;  aqui  estd  el 
azucar  !  "  (Melons,  melons  ;  here  is  the  sugar !)  \ 
Behind  them  creeps  a  slow-moving  Asturian, 
in  heavy  wooden  shoes,  crying  watercresses ; 
and  a  peasant  woman  from  the  Guadarrama 
Mountains,  with  a  montera  cocked  up  in  front, 
and  a  blue  kerchief  tied  under  her  chin, 


1 86  A    Tailor's  Drawer 

swings  in  each  hand  a  bunch  of  live  chickens, 
—  that  hang  by  the  claws,  head  downwards, 
fluttering,  scratching,  crowing  with  all  their 
might,  while  the  good  woman  tries  to  drown 
their  voices  in  the  discordant  cry  of  "  i  Quien 
me  compra  un  galloy  —  un  par  de  gal  Unas  ?  " 
(Who  buys  a  cock,  —  a  pair  of  fowls  ?)  That 
tall  fellow  in  blue,  with  a  pot  of  flowers  upon 
his  shoulder,  is  a  wag,  beyond  all  dispute. 
See  how  cunningly  he  cocks  his  eye  up  at  us,* 
and  cries,  "  Si  yo  tuviera  balcon  !  "  (If  I  only  V 
had  a  balcony !) 

What  next  ?  A  Manchego  with  a  sack  of  ^ 
oil  under  his  arm  ;  a  Gallego  with  a  huge 
water-jar  upon  his  shoulders ;  an  Italian  ped- 
ler  with  images  of  saints  and  madonnas  ;  a 
razor-grinder  with  his  wheel ;  a  mender  of 
pots  and  kettles,  making  music,  as  he  goes, 
with  a  shovel  and  a  frying-pan ;  and,  in  fine,  a 
noisy,  patchwork,  ever-changing  crowd,  whose 
discordant  cries  mingle  with  the  rumbling  of 
wheels,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the  clang  of 
church-bells  ;  and  make  the  Puerta  del  Sol, 
at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  like  a  street  in 
Babylon  the  Great. 


A    Tailor's  Drawer  187 

IV. 

CHITON  !  A  beautiful  girl,  with  flaxen  hair, 
blue  eyes,  and  the  form  of  a  fairy  in  a  midsum 
mer  night's  dream,  has  just  stepped  out  on 
the  balcony  beneath  us !  See  how  coquettishly 
she  crosses  her  arms  upon  the  balcony,  thrusts 
her  dainty  little  foot  through  the  bars,  and 
plays  with  her  slipper !  She  is  an  Andalu- 
sian,  from  Malaga.  Her  brother  is  a  bold 
dragoon,  and  wears  a  long  sword  ;  so  beware  ! 
and  "  let  not  the  creaking  of  shoes  and  the 
rustling  of  silks  betray  thy  poor  heart  to 
woman."  Her  mother  is  a  vulgar  woman, 
"fat  and  forty";  eats  garlic  in  her  salad,  and 
smokes  cigars.  But  mind !  that  is  a  secret ;  I 
tell  it  to  you  in  confidence. 

v. 

THE  following  little  ditty  I  translate  from 
the  Spanish.  It  is  as  delicate  as  a  dew-drop. 

She  is  a  maid  of  artless  grace, 
Gentle  in  form,  and  fair  of  face. 

Tell  me,  thou  ancient  mariner, 

That  sailest  on  the  sea, 
If  ship,  or  sail,  or  evening  star 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she  ! 


1 88  A    Tailor's  Drawer 

Tell  me,  thou  gallant  cavalier, 

Whose  shining  arms  I  see, 
If  steed,  or  sword,  or  battle-field 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she  ! 

Tell  me,  thou  swain,  that  guard'st  thy  flock 

Beneath  the  shadowy  tree, 
If  flock,  or  vale,  or  mountain-ridge 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she  ! 


VI. 

A  MILLER  has  just  passed  by,  covered  with 
flour  from  head  to  foot,  and  perched  upon  the 
tip  end  of  a  little  donkey,  crying  "  Arre  bor- 
rico  !  "  and  at  every  cry  swinging  a  cudgel  in 
his  hand,  and  giving  the  ribs  of  the  poor  beast 
what  in  the  vulgar  dialect  is  called  a  cachipor- 
razo.  I  could  not  help  laughing,  though  I  felt 
provoked  with  the  fellow  for  his  cruelty.  The 
truth  is,  I  have  great  regard  for  a  jackass. 
His  meekness,  and  patience,  and  long-suffer 
ing  are  very  amiable  qualities,  and,  consider 
ing  his  situation,  worthy  of  all  praise.  In 
Spain,  a  donkey  plays  as  conspicuous  a  part  as 
a  priest  or  a  village  alcalde.  There  would  be 
no  getting  along  without  him.  And  yet  who 
eo  beaten  and  abused  as  he  ? 


A    Tailor's  Drawer  189 

VII. 

HERE  comes  a  gay  gallant,  with  white  kid 
gloves,  an  eye-glass,  a  black  cane,  with  a  white 
ivory  pommel,  and  a  little  hat,  cocked  pertly 
on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  is  an  exquisite 
fop,  and  a  great  lady's  man.  You  will  always 
find  him  on  the  Prado  at  sunset,  when  the 
crowd  and  dust  are  thickest,  ogling  through 
his  glass,  flourishing  his  cane,  and  humming 
between  his  teeth  some  favorite  air  of  the 
Semiramis,  or  the  Barber  of  Seville.  He  is  a 
great  amateur,  and  patron  of  the  Italian 
Opera,  —  beats  time  with  his  cane,  —  nods  his 
head,  and  cries  Bravo  !  —  and  fancies  himself 
in  love  with  the  Prima  Donna.  The  height  of 
his  ambition  is  to  be  thought  the  gay  Lothario, 
—  the  gallant  Don  Cortejo  of  his  little  sphere. 
He  is  a  poet  withal,  and  daily  besieges  the 
heart  of  the  cruel  Dona  Inez  with  sonnets  and 
madrigals.  She  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  his  song, 
and  is  inexorable  :  — 

"  Mas  que  no  sea  mas  piadosa 
A  dos  escudos  en  prosa, 
No  puede  ser." 


A    Tailors  Drawer 


VIII. 

WHAT  a  contrast  between  this  personage 
and  the  sallow,  emaciated  being  who  is  now 
crossing  the  street  !  It  is  a  barefooted  Car 
melite,  —  a  monk  of  an  austere  order,  —  wasted 
by  midnight  vigils  and  long  penance.  Absti 
nence  is  written  on  that  pale  cheek,  and  the 
bowed  head  and  downcast  eye  are  in  accord 
ance  with  the  meek  profession  of  a  mendicant 
brotherhood. 

What  is  this  world  to  thee,  thou  man  of 
penitence  and  prayer  ?  What  hast  thou  to  do 
with  all  this  busy,  turbulent  scene  about  thee, 
—  with  all  the  noise,  and  gayety,  and  splendor 
of  this  thronged  city  ?  Nothing.  The  wide 
world  gives  thee  nothing,  save  thy  daily  crust, 
thy  crucifix,  thy  convent-cell,  thy  pallet  of 
straw  !  Pilgrim  of  heaven  !  thou  hast  no  home 
on  earth.  Thou  art  journeying  onward  to  "  a 
house  not  made  with  hands  "  ;  and,  like  the 
first  apostles  of  thy  faith,  thou  takest  neither 
gold,  nor  silver,  nor  brass,  nor  scrip  for  thy 
journey.  Thou  hast  shut  thy  heart  to  the  en 
dearments  of  earthly  love,  —  thy  shoulder  bear- 
eth  not  the  burden  with  thy  fellow-man,  —  in 
all  this  vast  crowd  thou  hast  no  friends,  no 
hopes,  no  sympathies.  Thou  standest  aloof 


A    Tailor's  Drawer  191 

from  man,  —  and  art  thou  nearer  God  ?  I 
know  not.  Thy  motives,  thy  intentions,  thy 
desires  are  registered  in  heaven.  I  am  thy 
fellow-man,  —  and  not  thy  judge. 

"  Who  is  the  greater  ? "  says  the  German 
moralist ;  "  the  wise  man  who  lifts  himself 
above  the  storms  of  time,  and  from  aloof  looks 
down  upon  them,  and  yet  takes  no  part  there 
in,  —  or  he  who,  from  the  height  of  quiet  and 
repose,  throws  himself  boldly  into  the  battle- 
tumult  of  the  world  ?  Glorious  is  it,  when  the 
eagle  through  the  beating  tempest  flies  into 
the  bright  blue  heaven  upward  ;  but  far  more 
glorious,  when,  poising  in  the  blue  sky  over 
the  black  storm-abyss,  he  plunges  downward 
to  his  aerie  on  the  cliff,  where  cower  his  un 
fledged  brood,  and  tremble." 

IX. 

vj  SULTRY  grows  the  day,  and  breathless  !  The 
lately  crowded  street  is  silent  and  deserted,  — 
hardly  a  footfall,  —  hardly  here  and  there  a 
solitary  figure  stealing  along  in  the  narrow 
strip  of  shade  beneath  the  eaves !  Silent,  too, 
and  deserted  is  the  Puerta  del  Sol ;  so  silent, 
that  even  at  this  distance  the  splashing  of  its 
fountain  is  distinctly  audible,  —  so  deserted, 


192  A    Tailor's  Drawer 

that  not  a  living  thing  is  visible  there,  save  the 
outstretched  and  athletic  form  of  a  Galician 
water-carrier,  who  lies  asleep  upon  the  pave 
ment  in  the  cool  shadow  of  the  fountain ! 
There  is  not  air  enough  to  stir  the  leaves  of 
the  jasmine  upon  the  balcony,  or  break  the 
thin  column  of  smoke  that  issues  from  the  ci 
gar  of  Don  Diego,  master  of  the  noble  Spanish 
tongue,  y  hem bv^—de-^mtehos dingohndang&s. 
He  sits  bolt  upright  between  the  window  and 
the  door,  with  the  collar  of  his  snuff-colored 
frock  thrown  back  upon  his  shoulders,  and  his 
toes  turned  out  like  a  dancing-master,  poring 
over  the  Diario  de  Madrid,  to  learn  how  high 
the  thermometer  rose  yesterday,  —  what  pa 
tron  saint  has  a  festival  to-day,  —  and  at  what 
hour  to-morrow  the  "  King  of  Spaiiv  Jerusa 
lem,  and  the  Canary  Islands  "  will  take  Ms  de 
parture  for  the  gardens  of  Aranjuez.  -jj ' 

You  have  a  proverb  in  your  language,  Don 
Diego,  which  says, — 

"  Despues  de  comer 
Ni  un  sobrescrito  leer  "  ;  — 

after  dinner  read  not  even  the  superscription 
of  a  letter.  I  shall  obey,  and  indulge  in  the 
exquisite  luxury  of  a  siesta.  I  confess  that  I 
love  this  after-dinner  nap.  Vjf  I  have  a  gift,  a 


A    Tailor's  Drawer  193 

vocation  for  anything,  it  is  for  sleeping ;  and 
from  my  heart  I  can  say  with  honest  Sancho, 
"  Blessed  be  the  man  that  first  invented  sleep  ! " 
In  a  sultry  clime,  too,  where  the  noontide  heat 
unmans  you,  and  the  cool  starry  night  seems 
made  for  anything  but  slumber,  I  am  willing 
to  barter  an  hour  or  two  of  intense  daylight 
for  an  hour  or  two  of  tranquil,  lovely,  dewy 
night ! 

Therefore,  Don  Diego,  hasta  la  vista  ! 

x. 

IT  is  evening  ;  the  day  is  gone  ;  fast  gather 
and  deepen  the  shades  of  twilight !  In  the 
words  of  a  German  allegory,  "  The  babbling 
day  has  touched  the  hem  of  night's  garment, 
and,  weary  and  still,  drops  asleep  in  her  bo 
som." 

The  city  awakens  from  its  slumber.  The 
convent-bells  ring  solemnly  and  slow.  The 
streets  are  thronged  again.  Once  more  I  hear 
the  shrill  cry,  the  rattling  wheel,  the  murmur 
of  the  crowd.  The  blast  of  a  trumpet  sounds 
from  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  —  then  the  tap  of  a 
drum  ;  a  mounted  guard  opens  the  way,  —  the 
crowd  doff  their  hats,  and  the  king  sweeps  by 
in  a  gilded  coach  drawn  by  six  horses,  and  fol- 
9  M 


194  ^    Tailor's  Drawer 

lowed  by  a  long  train  of  uncouth,  antiquated 
vehicles  drawn  by  mules. 

The  living  tide  now  sets  towards  the  Prado, 
and  the  beautiful  gardens  of  the  Retire.  Beau 
tiful  are  they  at  this  magic  hour  !  Beautiful, 
with  the  almond-tree  in  blossom,  with  the 
broad  green  leaves  of  the  sycamore  and  the 
chestnut,  with  the  fragrance  of  the  orange  and 
the  lemon,  with  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  flow 
ers,  with  the  soothing  calm  and  the  dewy 
i  freshness  of  evening  ! 

XI. 

I  LOVE  to  linger  on  the  Prado  till  the  crowd 
is  gone  and  the  night  far  advanced.  There 
musing  and  alone  I  sit,  and  listen  to  the  lull 
ing  fall  of  waters  in  their  marble  fountains, 
and  watch  the  moon  as  it  rises  over  the  gar 
dens  of  the  Retiro,  brighter  than  a  northern 
sun.  The  beautiful  scene  lies  half  in  shadow, 
half  in  light,  —  almost  a  fairy-land.  Occasion 
ally  the  sound  of  a  guitar,  or  a  distant  voice, 
breaks  in  upon  my  re  very.  Then  the  form  of 
a  monk,  from  the  neighboring  convent,  sweeps 
by  me  like  a  shadow,  and  disappears  in  the 
gloom  of  the  leafy  avenues  ;  and  far  away  from 
the  streets  of  the  city  comes  the  voice  of  the 
watchman  telling  the  midnight  hour. 


A    Tailor's  Drawer  195 

Lovely  art  thou,  O  Night,  beneath  the  skies 
of  Spain  !  Day,  panting  with  heat,  and  laden 
with  a  thousand  cares,  toils  onward  like  a 
beast  of  burden ;  but  Night,  calm,  silent,  holy 
Night,  is  a  ministering  angel  that  cools  with 
its  dewy  breath  the  toil-heated  brow ;  and, 
like  the  Roman  sisterhood,  stoops  down  to 
bathe  the  pilgrim's  feet.  How  grateful  is 
the  starry  twilight !  How  grateful  the  gentle 
radiance  of  the  moon  !  How  grateful  the  deli 
cious  coolness  of  "  the*  omnipresent  and  deep- 
breathing  air ! "  Lovely  art  thou,  O  Night, 
beneath  the  skies  of  Spain  ! 


ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS 

I  love  a  ballad  but  even  too  well,  if  it  be  doleful  matter  merrily  set 
down,  or  a  very  pleasant  thing  indeed,  and  sung  lamentably. 

WINTER'S  TALR 

HOW  universal  is  the  love  of  poetry  !  Ev 
ery  nation  has  its  popular  songs,  the 
offspring  of  a  credulous  simplicity  and  an  un 
schooled  fancy.  The  peasant  of  the  North,  as 
he  sits  by  the  evening  fire,  sings  the  tradition 
ary  ballad  to  his  children, 

"Nor  wants  he  gleeful  tales,  while  round 
The  nut-brown  bowl  doth  trot " 

The  peasant  of  the  South,  as  he  lies  at  noon  in 
the  shade  of  the  sycamore,  or  sits  by  his  door 
in  the  evening  twilight,  sings  his  amorous  lay, 
and  listlessly, 

"  On  hollow  quills  of  oaten  straw, 
He  pipeth  melody. " 

The  muleteer  of  Spain  carols  with  the  early 
lark,  amid  the  stormy  mountains  of  his  native 
land.  The  vintager  of  Sicily  has  his  even 
ing  hymn  ;  the  fisherman  of  Naples  his  boat- 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         197 

song ;  the  gondolier  of  Venice  his  midnight 
serenade.  The  goatherd  of  Switzerland  and 
the  Tyrol,  —  the  Carpathian  boor,  —  the  Scotch 
Highlander,  —  the  English  ploughboy,  sing 
ing  as  he  drives  his  team  afield,  —  peasant, 
—  serf,  —  slave,  —  all,  all  have  their  ballads 
and  traditionary  songs.  Music  is  the  univer 
sal  language  of  mankind,  —  poetry  their  uni 
versal  pastime  and  delight. 

The  ancient  ballads  of  Spain  hold  a  promi 
nent  rank  in  her  literary  history.  Their  num 
ber  is  truly  astonishing,  and  may  well  startle 
the  most  enthusiastic  lover  of  popular  song. 
The  Romancero  General*  contains  upwards 
of  a  thousand ;  and  though  upon  many  of 
these  may  justly  be  bestowed  the  encomium 
which  honest  Izaak  Walton  pronounces  upon 
the  old  English  ballad  of  the  Passionate  Shep 
herd, —  "old-fashioned  poetry,  but  choicely 
good,"  —  yet,  as  a  whole,  they  are,  perhaps, 
more  remarkable  for  their  number  than  for 
their  beauty.  Every  great  historic  event, 
every  marvellous  tradition,  has  its  popular  bal 
lad.  Don  Roderick,  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  and 


*  Romancero  General,  en  que  se  contiene  todos  los   Ro 
mances  que  andan  impresos.     410.     Madrid,  1604. 


198        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

the  Cid  Campeador  are  not  more  the  heroes  of 
ancient  chronicle  than  of  ancient  song ;  and 
the  imaginary  champions  of  Christendom,  the 
twelve  peers  of  Charlemagne,  have  found  an 
historian  in  the  wandering  ballad-singer  no 
less  authentic  than  the  good  Archbishop  Tur- 
pin. 

Most  of  these  ancient  ballads  had  their 
origin  during  the  dominion  of  the  Moors  in 
Spain.  Many  of  them,  doubtless,  are  nearly 
as  old  as  the  events  they  celebrate  ;  though  in 
their  present  form  the  greater  part  belong  to 
the  fourteenth  century.  The  language  in 
which  they  are  now  preserved  indicates  no 
higher  antiquity  ;  but  who  shall  say  how  long 
they  had  been  handed  down  by  tradition,  ere 
they  were  taken  from  the  lips  of  the  wander 
ing  minstrel,  and  recorded  in  a  more  perma 
nent  form  ? 

The  seven  centuries  of  the  Moorish  sover 
eignty  in  Spain  are  the  heroic  ages  of  her  his 
tory  and  her  poetry.  What  the  warrior 
achieved  with  his  sword  the  minstrel  pub 
lished  in  his  song.  The  character  of  those 
ages  is  seen  in  the  character  of  their  literature. 
History  casts  its  shadow  far  into  the  land  of 
song.  Indeed,  the  most  prominent  character- 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads          199 

istic  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads  is  their 
warlike  spirit.  They  shadow  forth  the  ma 
jestic  lineaments  of  the  warlike  ages  ;  and 
through  every  line  breathes  a  high  and  pecu 
liar  tone  of  chivalrous  feeling.  It  is  not  the 
piping  sound  of  peace,  but  a  blast,  —  a  loud, 
long  blast  from  the  war-horn,  — 

"  A  trump  with  a  stern  breath, 
Which  is  cleped  the  trump  of  death. " 

And  with  this  mingles  the  voice  of  lamenta 
tion,  —  the  requiem  for  the  slain,  with  a  melan 
choly  sweetness :  — 

"  Rio  Verde,  Rio  Verde  ! 

Many  a  corpse  is  bathed  in  thee, 

Both  of  Moors  and  eke  of  Christians, 

Slain  with  swords  most  cruelly, 

"  And  thy  pure  and  crystal  waters 

Dappled  are  with  crimson  gore ; 

For  between  the  Moors  and  Christians 

Long  has  been  the  fight  and  sore. 

"  Dukes  and  counts  fell  bleeding  near  thee, 

Lords  of  high  renown  were  slain, 
Perished  many  a  brave  kidalgo 
Of  the  noblemen  of  Spain." 

Another  prominent  characteristic  of  these 
ancient  ballads  is  their  energetic  and  beau 
tiful  simplicity.  A  great  historic  event  is  de- 


2OO        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

scribed  in  the  fewest  possible  words ;  there  is 
no  ornament,  no  artifice.  The  poet's  intention 
was  to  narrate,  not  to  embellish.  It  is  truly 
wonderful  to  observe  what  force,  and  beauty, 
and  dramatic  power  are  given  to  the  old  ro 
mances  by  this  single  circumstance.  When 
Bernardo  del  Carpio  leads  forth  his  valiant 
Leonese  against  the  host  of  Charlemagne,  he 
animates  their  courage  by  alluding  to  their 
battles  with  the  Moors,  and  exclaims,  "  Shall 
the  lions  that  have  bathed  their  paws  in  Lib 
yan  gore  now  crouch  before  the  Frank  ? " 
When  he  enters  the  palace  of  the  treacherous 
Alfonso,  to  upbraid  him  for  a  broken  promise, 
and  the  king  orders  him  to  be  arrested  for 
contumely,  he  lays  his  hand  upon  his  sword 
and  cries,  "  Let  no  one  stir !  I  am  Ber 
nardo  ;  and  my  sword  is  not  subject  even  to 
kings !  "  When  the  Count  Alarcos  prepares  to 
put  to  death  his  own  wife  at  the  king's  com 
mand,  she  submits  patiently  to  her  fate,  asks 
time  to  say  a  prayer,  and  then  exclaims,  "  Now 
bring  me  my  infant  boy,  that  I  may  give  him 
suck,  as  my  last  farewell ! "  Is  there  in  Ho 
mer  an  incident  more  touching,  or  more  true 
to  nature  ? 
The  ancient  Spanish  ballads  naturally  divide 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         201 

themselves  into  three  classes  :  —  the  Historic, 
the  Romantic,  and  the  Moorish.  It  must  be 
confessed,  however,  that  the  line  of  demarca 
tion  between  these  three  classes  is  not  well 
defined ;  for  many  of  the  Moorish  ballads  are 
historic,  and  many  others  occupy  a  kind  of  de 
batable  ground  between  the  historic  and  the 
romantic.  I  have  adopted  this  classification 
for  the  sake  of  its  convenience,  and  shall  now 
make  a  few  hasty  observations  upon  each  class, 
and  illustrate  my  remarks  by  specimens  of  the 
ballads. 

The  historic  ballads  are  those  which  recount 
the  noble  deeds  of  the  early  heroes  of  Spain : 
of  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  the  Cid,  Martin  Pelaez, 
Garcia  Perez  de  Vargas,  Alonso  de  Aguilar, 
and  many  others  whose  names  stand  conspicu 
ous  in  Spanish  history.  Indeed,  these  ballads 
may  themselves  be  regarded  in  the  light  of 
historic  documents  ;  they  are  portraits  of  long- 
departed  ages,  and  if  at  times  their  features  are 
exaggerated  and  colored  with  too  bold  a  con 
trast  of  light  and  shade,  yet  the  free  and  spir 
ited  touches  of  a  master's  hand  are  recognized 
in  all.  They  are  instinct,  too,  with  the  spirit 
of  Castilian  pride,  with  the  high  and  dauntless 
spirit  of  liberty  that  burned  so  fiercely  of  old 


2O2        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

in  the  heart  of  the  brave  hidalgo.  Take,  for 
example,  the  ballad  of  the  Five  Farthings. 
King  Alfonso  the  Eighth,  having  exhausted  his 
treasury  in  war,  wishes  to  lay  a  tax  of  five  far 
things  upon  each  of  the  Castilian  hidalgos,  in 
order  to  defray  the  expenses  of  a  journey  from 
Burgos  to  Cuenca.  This  proposition  of  the 
ting  was  met  with  disdain  by  the  noblemen 
vho  had  been  assembled  on  the  occasion. 

"  Don  Nuno,  Count  of  Lara, 

In  anger  and  in  pride, 
Forgot  all  reverence  for  the  king, 
And  thus  in  wrath  replied  :  — 

"  '  Our  noble  ancestors,'  quoth  he, 

'  Ne'er  such  a  tribute  paid  ; 
Nor  shall  the  king  receive  of  us 
What  they  have  once  gainsaid. 

"  '  The  base-born  soul  who  deems  it  just 

May  here  with  thee  remain  ; 
But  follow  me,  ye  cavaliers, 
Ye  noblemen  of  Spain.' 

"  Forth  followed  they  the  noble  Count, 

They  marched  to  Glera's  plain  ; 
Out  of  three  thousand  gallant  knights 
Did  only  three  remain. 

"They  tied  the  tribute  to  their  spears, 

They  raised  it  in  the  air, 
And  they  sent  to  tell  their  lord  the  king 
That  his  tax  was  ready  there. 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         203 

" '  He  may  send  and  take  by  force,'  said  they, 

'  This  paltry  sum  of  gold  ; 
But  the  goodly  gift  of  liberty 
Cannot  be  bought  and  sold.'  " 

The  same  gallant  spirit  breathes  through  all 
the  historic  ballads;  but,  perhaps,  most  fer 
vently  in  those  which  relate  to  Bernardo 
del  Carpio.  How  spirit-stirring  are  all  the 
speeches  which  the  ballad-writers  have  put 
into  the  mouth  of  this  valiant  hero !  "  Ours  is 
the  blood  of  the  Goth,"  says  he  to  King  Al 
fonso  ;  "  sweet  to  ,us  is  liberty,  and  bondage 
odious  !  "  —  "  The  king  may  give  his  castles  to 
the  Frank,  but  not  his  vassals  ;  for  kings  them 
selves  hold  no  dominion  over  the  free  will  ! " 
He  and  his  followers  would  rather  die  freemen 
than  live  slaves !  If  these  are  the  common 
watchwords  of  liberty  at  the  present  day,  they 
were  no  less  so  among  the  high-souled  Span 
iards  of  the  eighth  century. 

One  of  the  finest  of  the  historic  ballads  is 
that  which  describes  Bernardo's  march  to  Ron- 
cesvalles.  He  sallies  forth  "with  three  thou 
sand  Leonese  and  more,"  to  protect  the  glory 
and  freedom  of  his  native  land.  From  all 
sides,  the  peasantry  of  the  land  flock  to  the 
hero's  standard. 


204        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

"  The  peasant  leaves  his  plough  afield, 

The  reaper  leaves  his  hook, 
And  from  his  hand  the  shepherd-b«»y 
Lets  fall  the  pastoral  crook. 

"  The  young  set  up  a  shout  of  joy, 

The  old  forget  their  years, 
The  feeble  man  grows  stout  of  heart 
No  more  the  craven  fears. 

"  All  rush  to  Bernard's  standard, 

And  on  liberty  they  call ; 
They  cannot  brook  to  wear  the  yoke, 
When  threatened  by  the  GauL 

"  'Free  were  we  bom,'  'tis  thus  they  cry, 

'  And  willingly  pay  we 
The  duty  that  we  owe  our  king, 
By  the  divine  decree. 

"  '  But  God  forbid  that  we  obey 
The  laws  of  foreign  knaves, 
Tarnish  the  glory  of  our  sires, 
And  make  our  children  slaves. 

*  '  Our  hearts  have  not  so  craven  grown, 

So  bloodless  all  our  veins, 
So  vigorless  our  brawny  arms, 
As  to  submit  to  chains. 

"  '  Has  the  audacious  Frank,  forsooth, 

Subdued  these  seas  and  lands  ? 

Shall  he  a  bloodless  victory  have  T 

No,  not  while  we  have  hands. 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         205 

"  '  He  shall  learn  that  the  gallant  Leonese 

Can  bravely  fight  and  fall ; 
But  that  they  know  not  how  to  yield  ; 
They  are  Castilians  all. 

"  '  Was  it  for  this  the  Roman  power 

Of  old  was  made  to  yield 

Unto  Numantia's  valiant  hosts, 

On  many  a  bloody  field  ? 

"  '  Shall  the  bold  lions  that  have  bathed 

Their  paws  in  Libyan  gore, 
Crouch  basely  to  a  feebler  foe, 
And  dare  the  strife  no  more  ? 

"  '  Let  the  false  king  sell  town  and  tower, 

But  not  his  vassals  free  ; 
For  to  subdue  the  free-born  soul 
No  royal  power  hath  he  ! '  " 

These  short  specimens  will  suffice  to  show 
the  spirit  of  the  old  heroic  ballads  of  Spain  ; 
the  Romances  del  Cid,  and  those  that  rehearse 
the  gallant  achievements  of  many  other  cham 
pions,  brave  and  stalwart  knights  of  old,  I  must 
leave  unnoticed,  and  pass  to  another  field  of 
chivalry  and  song. 

The  next  class  of  the  ancient  Spanish  bal 
lads  is  the  Romantic,  including  those  which 
relate  to  the  Twelve  Peers  of  Charlemagne 
and  other  imaginary  heroes  of  the  days  of 
chivalry.  There  is  an  exaggeration  in  the 


206        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

prowess  of  these  heroes  of  romance  which  is  in 
accordance  with  the  warmth  of  a  Spanish  im 
agination  ;  and  the  ballads  which  celebrate 
their  achievements  still  go  from  mouth  to 
mouth  among  the  peasantry  of  Spain,  and  are 
hawked  about  the  streets  by  the  blind  ballad- 
monger. 

Among  the  romantic  ballads,  those  of  the 
Twelve  Peers  stand  pre-eminent ;  not  so  much 
for  their  poetic  merit  as  for  the  fame  of  their 
heroes.  In  them  are  sung  the  valiant  knights 
whose  history  is  written  more  at  large  in  the 
prose  romances  of  chivalry,  —  Orlando,  and 
Oliver,  and  Montesinos,  and  Durandarte,  and 
the  Marques  de  Mantua,  and  the  other  pala 
dins,  " que  en  una  mesa  comian  pan"  These 
ballads  are  of  different  length  and  various 
degrees  of  merit.  Of  some  a  few  lines  only 
remain  ;  they  are  evidently  fragments  of  larger 
works ;  while  others,  on  the  contrary,  aspire  to 
the  length  and  dignity  of  epic  poems;  —  wit 
ness  the  ballads  of  the  Conde  de  Irlos  and  the 
Marques  de  Mantua,  each  of  which  consists  of 
nearly  a  thousand  long  and  sonorous  lines. 

Among  these  ballads  of  the  Twelve  Peers 
there  are  many  of  great  beauty ;  others  possess 
little  merit,  and  are  wanting  in  vigor  and  con- 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         207 

ciseness.  From  the  structure  of  the  versifica 
tion,  I  should  rank  them  among  the  oldest  of 
the  Spanish  ballads.  They  are  all  monorhyth- 
mic,  with  full  consonant  rhymes. 

To  the  romantic  ballads  belong  also  a  great 
number  which  recount  the  deeds  of  less  cele 
brated  heroes;  but  among  them  all  none  is 
so  curious  as  that  of  Virgil.  Like  the  old 
French  romance-writers  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
the  early  Spanish  poets  introduce  the  Mantuan 
bard  as  a  knight  of  chivalry.  The  ballad  in 
forms  us  that  a  certain  king  kept  him  impris 
oned  seven  years,  for  what  old  Brantome 
would  call  outrecuydance  with  a  certain  Dona 
Isabel.  But  being  at  mass  on  Sunday,  the 
recollection  of  Virgil  comes  suddenly  into  his 
mind,  when  he  ought  to  be  attending  to  the 
priest ;  and,  turning  to  his  knights,  he  asks 
them  what  has  become  of  Virgil.  One  of 
them  replies,  "  Your  Highness  has  him  impris 
oned  in  your  dungeons " ;  to  which  the  king 
makes  answer  with  the  greatest  coolness,  by 
telling  them  that  the  dinner  is  waiting,  and 
that  after  they  have  dined  they  will  pay  Virgil 
a  visit  in  his  prison.  Then  up  and  spake  the 
queen  like  a  true  heroine  ;  quoth  she,  "  I  will 
not  dine  without  him "  ;  and  straightway  they 


2o8        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

all  repaired  to  the  prison,  where  they  find  the 
incarcerated  knight  engaged  in  the  pleasant 
pastime  of  combing  his  hair  and  arranging  his 
beard.  He  tells  the  king  very  coolly  that  on 
that  very  day  he  has  been  a  prisoner  seven 
years ;  to  this  the  king  replies,  "  Hush,  hush, 
Virgil ;  it  takes  three  more  to  make  ten."  — 
"Sire,"  says  Virgil,  with  the  same  philosophi 
cal  composure,  "if  your  Highness  so  ordains,  I 
will  pass  my  whole  life  here." — "  As  a  reward 
for  your  patience,  you  shall  dine  with  me  to 
day,"  says  the  king.  "  My  coat  is  torn,"  says 
Virgil ;  "  I  am  not  in  trim  to  make  a  leg." — 
But  this  difficulty  is  removed  by  the  promise 
of  a  new  suit  from  the  king  ;  and  they  go  to 
dinner.  Virgil  delights  both  knights  and  dam 
sels,  but  most  of  all  Dona  Isabel.  The  arch 
bishop  is  called  in ;  they  are  married  forth 
with,  and  the  ballad  closes  like  a  scene  in 
some  old  play  :  — "  He  takes  her  by  the  hand, 
and  leads  her  to  the  garden." 

Such  is  this  curious  ballad. 

I  now  turn  to  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of 
these  ancient  Spanish  poems  ;  —  it  is  the  Ro 
mance  del  Conde  Alarcos ;  a  ballad  full  of  in 
terest  and  of  touching  pathos.  The  story  is 
briefly  this.  The  Count  Alarcos,  after  being 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         209 

secretly  betrothed  to  the  Infanta  Solisa,  for 
sakes  her  and  weds  another  lady.  Many 
years  afterward,  the  princess,  sitting  alone,  as 
she  was  wont,  and  bemoaning  her  forsaken 
lot,  resolves  to  tell  the  cause  of  her  secret  sor 
row  to  the  king  her  father ;  and,  after  confess 
ing  her  clandestine  love  for  Count  Alarcos, 
demands  the  death  of  the  Countess,  to  heal 
her  wounded  honor.  Her  story  awakens  the 
wrath  of  the  king  ;  he  acknowledges  the  just 
ness  of  her  demand,  seeks  an  interview  with 
the  Count,  and  sets  the  case  before  him  in  so 
strong  a  light,  that  finally  he  wrings  from  him 
a  promise  to  put  his  wife  to  death  with  his 
own  hand.  The  Count  returns  homeward  a 
grief-stricken  man,  weeping  the  sad  destiny  of 
his  wife,  and  saying  within  himself,  "  How 
shall  I  look  upon  her  smile  of  joy,  when  she 
comes  forth  to  meet  me  ? "  The  Countess  wel 
comes  his  return  with  affectionate  tenderness  ; 
but  he  is  heavy  at  heart  and  disconsolate. 
He  sits  down  to  supper  with  his  children 
around  him,  but  the  food  is  untasted  ;  he  hides 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  weeps.  At  length 
they  retire  to  their  chamber.  In  the  language 
of  Mr.  Lockhart's  translation,  — 


2io        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

"  They  came  together  to  the  bower,  where  they  were  used  to 

rest,  — 

None  with  them  but  the  little  babe  that  was  upon  the  breast : 
The  Count  had  barred  the  chamber-doors,  —  they  ne'er  were 

barred  till  then : 
'  Unhappy  lady,'  he  began,  '  and  I  most  lost  of  men  ! ' 

"  '  Now  speak  not  so,  my  noble  lord,  my  husband,  and  my  life  ! 
Unhappy  never  can  she  be  that  is  Alarcos'  wife  ! ' 
'  Alas  !  unhappy  lady,  't  is  but  little  that  you  know ; 
For  in  that  very  word  you  've  said  is  gathered  all  your  woe. 

"  '  Long  since  I  loved  a  lady,  —  long  since  I  oaths  did  plight 
To  be  that  lady's  husband,  to  love  her  day  and  night ; 
Her  father  is  our  lord   the   king,  —  to  him  the   thing  is 

known  ; 
And  now  —  that  I  the  news  should  bring  !  —  she  claims  me 

for  her  own. 

"  '  Alas  !  my  love,  alas  !  my  life,  the  right  is  on  their  side ; 
Ere  I  had  seen  your  face,  sweet  wife,  she  was  betrothed  my 

bride  ; 
But  —  O,  that  I  should  speak  the  word  !  —  since  in  her 

place  you  lie, 
It  is  the  bidding  of  our  lord  that  you  this  night  must  die.' 

"  '  Are  these  the  wages  of  my  love,  so  lowly  and  so  leal  ? 
O,  kill  me  not,  thou  noble  Count,  when  at  thy  foot  I  kneel  ! 
But  send  me  to  my  father's  house,  where  once  I  dwelt  in 

glee; 
There  will  I  live  a  lone,  chaste  life,  and  rear  my  children 

three.' 

"  '  It  may  not  be,  —  mine  oath  is  strong,  —  ere  dawn  of  day 

you  die. ' 
'  O,  well  't  is  seen  how  all  alone  upon  the  earth  am  I  !  — 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         211 

My  father  is  an  old,  frail  man  ;  my  mother 's  in  her  grave  ; 
And  dead  is  stout  Don  Garci,  —  alas  !  my  brother  brave  ! 

•' '  'T  was  at  this  coward  king's  command  they  slew  my  brother 

dear, 

And  now  I  'm  helpless  in  the  land  !  —  It  is  not  death  I  fear, 
But  loth,  loth  am  I  to  depart,  and  leave  my  children  so  ;  — 
Now  let  me  lay  them  to  my  heart,  and  kiss  them,  ere  I  go. ' 

"  'Kiss  him  that  lies  upon  thy  breast,  — the  rest  thou  mayst 

not  see.' 

'  I  fain  would  say  an  Ave. '     '  Then  say  it  speedily. ' 
She  knelt  her  down  upon  her  knee,  —  '  O  Lord,  behold  my 

case  ! 
Judge  not  my  deeds,  but  look  on  me  in  pity  and  great  grace  ! ' 

"  When  she  had  made  her  orison,  up  from  her  knees  she 

rose :  — 

'  Be  kind,  Alarcos,  to  our  babes,  and  pray  for  my  repose  ; 
And  now  give  me  my  boy  once  more,  upon  my  breast  to  hold, 
That  he  may  drink  one  farewell  drink  before  my  breast  be 
cold. ' 

"'Why  would  you  waken   the  poor  child?  you  see   he  is 

asleep ; 
Prepare,  dear  wife,  there  is  no  time,  the  dawn  begins  to 

peep. ' 

'  Now,  hear  me,  Count  Alarcos  !  I  give  thee  pardon  free  : 
I  pardon  thee  for  the  love's  sake  wherewith  I've  loved 

thee ;  — 

"  '  But  they  have  not  my  pardon,  — the  king  and  his  proud 

daughter ; 

The  curse  of  God  be  on  them,  for  this  unchristian  slaughter. 
I  charge  them  with  my  dying  breath,  ere  thirty  days  be  gone, 
To  meet  me  in  the  realm  of  death,  and  at  God's  awful 

throne ! ' " 


212        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

The  Count  then  strangles  her  with  a  scarf, 
and  the  ballad  concludes  with  the  fulfilment  of 
the  dying  lady's  prayer,  in  the  death  of  the 
king  and  the  Infanta  within  twenty  days  of 
her  own. 

Few,  I  think,  will  be  disposed  to  question 
the  beauty  of  this  ancient  ballad,  though  a 
refined  and  cultivated  taste  may  revolt  from 
the  seemingly  unnatural  incident  upon  which 
it  is  founded.  It  must  be  recollected  that  this 
is  a  scene  taken  from  a  barbarous  age,  when 
the  life  of  even  the  most  cherished  and  beloved 
was  held  of  little  value  in  comparison  with  a 
chivalrous  but  false  and  exaggerated  point  of 
honor.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind  also,  that, 
notwithstanding  the  boasted  liberty  of  the  Cas- 
tilian  hidalgos,  and  their  frequent  rebellions 
against  the  crown,  a  deep  reverence  for  the 
divine  right  of  kings,  and  a  consequent  dispo 
sition  to  obey  the  mandates  of  the  throne,  at 
almost  any  sacrifice,  has  always  been  one  of  the 
prominent  traits  of  the  Spanish  character. 
When  taken  in  connection  with  these  circum 
stances,  the  story  of  this  old  ballad  ceases  to 
be  so  grossly  improbable  as  it  seems  at  first 
sight ;  and,  indeed,  becomes  an  illustration  of 
national  character.  In  all  probability,  the 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         213 

story  of  the  Conde  Alarcos   had   some  foun 
dation  in  fact* 

The  third  class  of  the  ancient  Spanish  bal 
lads  is  the  Moorish.  Here  we  enter  a  new 
world,  more  gorgeous  and  more  dazzling  than 
that  of  Gothic  chronicle  and  tradition.  The 
stern  spirits  of  Bernardo,  the  Cid,  and  Mudarra 
have  passed  away  ;  the  mail-clad  forms  of  Gua- 
rinos,  Orlando,  and  Durandarte  are  not  here : 
the  scene  is  changed  ;  it  is  the  bridal  of  An- 
dalla  ;  the  bull-fight  of  Ganzul.  The  sunshine 
of  Andalusia  glances  upon  the  marble  halls 
of  Granada,  and  green  are  the  banks  of  the 
Xenil  and  the  Darro.  A  band  of  Moorish 
knights  gayly  arrayed  in  gambesons  of  crimson 
silk,  with  scarfs  of  blue  and  jewelled  tahah'es, 
sweep  like  the  wind  through  the  square  of  Vi- 
varambla.  They  ride  to  the  Tournament  of 
Reeds ;  the  Moorish  maiden  leans  from  the 
balcony  ;  bright  eyes  glisten  from  many  a  lat 
tice  ;  and  the  victorious  knight  receives  the 
prize  of  valor  from  the  hand  of  her  whose 

*  This  exaggerated  reverence  for  the  person  and  prerogatives 
of  the  king  has  furnished  the  groundwork  of  two  of  the  best 
dramas  in  the  Spanish  language ;  La  Estrella  de  Sfvilla,  by 
Lope  de  Vega,  and  Del  Rey  abajo  Ninguno,  by  Francisco  dc 
Rojas. 


214        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

beauty  is  like .  the  star-lit  night.  These  are 
the  Xarifas,  the  Celindas,  and  Lindaraxas,  — 
the  Andallas,  Ganzules,  and  Abenzaydes  of 
Moorish  song. 

Then  comes  the  sound  of  the  silver  clarion, 
and  the  roll  of  the  Moorish  atabal,  down  from 
the  snowy  pass  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  and 
across  the  gardens  of  the  Vega.  Alhama  has 
fallen  !  woe  is  me,  Alhama  !  The  Christian  is 
at  the  gates  of  Granada ;  the  banner  of  the 
cross  floats  from  the  towers  of  the  Alhambra ! 
And  these,  too,  are  themes  for  the  minstrel,  — 
themes  sung  alike  by  Moor  and  Spaniard. 

Among  the  Moorish  ballads  are  included 
not  only  those  which  were  originally  composed 
in  Arabic,  but  all  that  relate  to  the  manners, 
customs,  and  history  of  the  Moors  in  Spain. 
In  most  of  them  the  influence  of  an  Oriental 
taste  is  clearly  visible  ;  their  spirit  is  more 
refined  and  effeminate  than  that  of  the  historic 
and  romantic  ballads,  in  which  no  trace  of 
such  an  influence  is  perceptible.  The  spirit 
of  the  Cid  is  stern,  unbending,  steel-clad  ; 
his  hand  grasps  his  sword  Tizona ;  his  heel 
wounds  the  flank  of  his  steed  Babieca  ;  — 

"  La  mano  aprieta  a  Tizona, 
Y  el  talon  fiere  a  Babieca." 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         215 

But  the  spirit  of  Arbolan  the  Moor,  though 
resolute  in  camps,  is  effeminate  in  courts ;  he 
is  a  diamond  among  scymitars,  yet  graceful  in 
the  dance ;  — 

"  Diamante  entre  los  alfanges, 
Gracioso  en  baylar  las  zambras. " 

The  ancient  ballads  are  stamped  with  the  char 
acter  of  their  heroes.  Abundant  illustrations 
of  this  could  be  given,  but  it  is  not  necessary. 

Among  the  most  spirited  of  the  Moorish 
ballads  are  those  which  are  interwoven  in  the 
History  of  the  Civil  Wars  of  Granada.  The 
following,  entitled  "A  very  mournful  Ballad 
on  the  Siege  and  Conquest  of  Alhama,"  is 
very  beautiful  ;  and  such  was  the  effect  it  pro 
duced  upon  the  Moors,  that  it  was  forbidden, 
on  pain  of  death,  to  sing  it  within  the  walls  of 
Granada.  The  translation,  which  is  executed 
with  great  skill  and  fidelity,  is  from  the  pen  of 
Lord  Byron. 

' '  The  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down, 
Through  Granada's  royal  town ; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Alhama's  city  fell; 


2i6        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  he  slew. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course  / 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  When  the  Alhambra's  walls  he  gained 
On  the  moment  he  ordained 
That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  1 

"  And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain,  — 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 
That  bloody  Mars  recalled  them  there, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before : 
4  Wherefore  call  on  us,  O  king  ? 
What  may  mean  this  gathering  T ' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

*' '  Friends  !  ye  have,  alas  !  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow,  — 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         217 

That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold, 
Have  obtained  Alhama's  hold.' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see  : 
'  Good  king,  thou  art  justly  served  ; 
Good  king,  this  thou  hast  deserved. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  '  By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 
The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower  ; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  chivalry. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  '  And  for  this,  O  king  !  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement ; 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

" '  He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 
He  must  perish  by  the  law  ; 
And  Granada  must  be  won, 
And  thyself  with  her  undone.' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  Fire  flashed  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eyes ; 
The  monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answered,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

M  '  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings  ! ' 
10 


218        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  king,  and  doomed  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  !  " 

Such  are  the  ancient  ballads  of  Spain ; 
poems  which,  like  the  Gothic  cathedrals  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  have  outlived  the  names  of  their 
builders.  They  are  the  handiwork  of  wander 
ing,  homeless  minstrels,  who  for  their  daily 
bread  thus  "built  the  lofty  rhyme";  and  whose 
names,  like  their  dust  and  ashes,  have  long, 
long  been  wrapped  in  a  shroud.  "  These  poets," 
says  an  anonymous  writer,  "have  left  behind 
them  no  trace  to  which  the  imagination  can 
attach  itself;  they  have  'died  and  made  no 
sign.'  We  pass  from  the  infancy  of  Spanish 
poetry  to  the  age  of  Charles,  through  a  long 
vista  of  monuments  without  inscriptions,  as 
the  traveller  approaches  the  noise  and  bustle 
of  modern  Rome  through  the  lines  of  silent 
and  unknown  tombs  that  border  the  Appian 
Way." 

Before  closing  this  essay,  I  must  allude  to 
the  unfavorable  opinion  which  the  learned  Dr. 
Southey  has  expressed  concerning  the  merit 
of  these  old  Spanish  ballads.  In  his  preface 
to  the  Chronicle  of  the  Cid,  he  says:  "The 
heroic  ballads  of  the  Spaniards  have  been 


Ancient  Spanish  Ballads         219 

overrated  in  this  country  ;  they  are  infinitely 
and  every  way  inferior  to  our  own.  There  are 
some  spirited  ones  in  the  Guerras  Civiles  de 
Granada,  from  which  the  rest  have  been  esti 
mated  ;  but,  excepting  these,  I  know  none  of 
any  value  among  the  many  hundreds  which  I 
have  perused."  On  this  field  I  am  willing  to 
do  battle,  though  it  be  with  a  veteran  knight 
who  bears  enchanted  arms,  and  whose  sword, 
like  that  of  Martin  Antolinez,  "  illumines  all 
the  field."  That  the  old  Spanish  ballads  may 
have  been  overrated,  and  that  as  a  whole  they 
are  inferior  to  the  English,  I  concede ;  that 
many  of  the  hundred  ballads  of  the  Cid  are 
wanting  in  interest,  and  that  many  of  those  of 
the  Twelve  Peers  of  France  are  languid,  and 
drawn  out  beyond  the  patience  of  the  most 
patient  reader,  I  concede ;  I  willingly  confess, 
also,  that  among  them  all  I  have  found  none 
that  can  rival  in  graphic  power  the  short  but 
wonderful  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence,  where 
in  the  mariner  sees  "  the  new  moon  with  the 
old  moon  in  her  arm,"  or  the  more  modern  one 
of  the  Battle  of  Agincourt,  by  Michael  Dray- 
ton,  beginning, — 

"  Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
As  we  our  sails  advance, 


220        Ancient  Spanish  Ballads 

Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry ; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry." 

All  this  I  readily  concede :  but  that  the  old 
Spanish  ballads  are  infinitely  and  every  way 
inferior  to  the  English,  and  that  among  them 
all  there  are  none  of  any  value,  save  a  few 
which  celebrate  the  civil  wars  of  Granada,  — 
this  I  deny.  The  March  of  Bernardo  del  Car- 
pio  is  hardly  inferior  to  Chevy  Chase  ;  and  the 
ballad  of  the  Conde  Alarcos,  in  simplicity  and 
pathos,  has  hardly  a  peer  in  all  English  bal 
ladry,  —  it  is  superior  to  Edem  o'  Gordon. 

But  a  truce  to  criticism.  Already,  methinks, 
I  hear  the  voice  of  a  drowsy  and  prosaic  her 
ald  proclaiming,  in  the  language  of  Don  Quix 
ote  to  the  puppet-player,  "  Make  an  end,  Mas 
ter  Peter,  for  it  grows  toward  supper-time,  and 
I  have  some  symptoms  of  hunger  upon  me." 


THE  VILLAGE   OF   EL   PARDILLO 

When  the  lawyer  is  swallowed  up  with  business,  and  the  statesman  is 
preventing  or  contriving  plots,  then  we  sit  on  cowslip  banks,  hear  the  birds 
sing,  and  possess  ourselves  in  as  much  quietness  as  these  silent  silver 
streams  we  now  see  glide  so  quietly  by  us. 

IZAAK  WALTON. 

IN  that  delicious  season  when  the  coy  and 
capricious  maidenhood  of  spring  is  swelling 
into  the  warmer,  riper,  and  more  voluptuous 
womanhood  of  summer,  I  left  Madrid  for  the 
village  of  El  Pardillo.  I  had  already  seen 
enough  of  the  villages  of  the  North  of  Spain 
to  know  that  for  the  most  part  they  have  few 
charms  to  entice  one  from  the  city ;  but  I  was 
curious  to  see  the  peasantry  of  the  land  in 
their  native  homes,  —  to  see  how  far  the  shep 
herds  of  Castile  resemble  those  who  sigh  and 
sing  in  the  pastoral  romances  of  Montemayor 
and  Caspar  Gil  Polo. 

I  love  the  city  and  its  busy  hum  ;  I  love  that 
glad  excitement  of  the  crowd  which  makes  the 
pulse  beat  quick,  the  freedom  from  restraint, 
the  absence  of  those  curious  eyes  and  idle 


222      The  Village  of  El  Pardillo 

tongues  which  persecute  one  in  villages  and 
provincial  towns.  I  love  the  country,  too,  in 
its  season  ;  and  there  is  no  scene  over  which 
my  eye  roves  with  more  delight  than  the  face 
of  a  summer  landscape  dimpled  with  soft  sun 
ny  hollows,  and  smiling  in  all  the  freshness 
and  luxuriance  of  June.  There  is  no  book  in 
which  I  read  sweeter  lessons  of  virtue,  or  find 
the  beauty  of  a  quiet  life  more  legibly  record 
ed.  My  heart  drinks  in  the  tranquillity  of  the 
scene  ;  and  I  never  hear  the  sweet  warble  of  a 
bird  from  its  native  wood,  without  a  silent  wish 
that  such  a  cheerful  voice  and  peaceful  shade 
were  mine.  There  is  a  beautiful  moral  feeling 
connected  with  everything  in  rural  life,  which 
is  not  dreamed  of  in  the  philosophy  of  the  city. 
The  voice  of  the  brook  and  the  language  of 
the  winds  and  woods  are  no  poetic  fiction. 
What  an  impressive  lesson  is  there  in  the 
opening  bud  of  spring !  what  an  eloquent 
homily  in  the  fall  of  the  autumnal  leaf !  How 
well  does  the  song  of  a  passing  bird  represent 
the  glad  but  transitory  days  of  youth  !  and  in 
the  hollow  tree  and  hooting  owl  what  a  melan 
choly  image  of  the  decay  and  imbecility  of  old 
age  !  In  the  beautiful  language  of  an  English 
poet,  — 


The  Village  of  El  Pardillo       223 

"  Your  voiceless  lips,  O  flowers,  are  living  preachers, 
Each  cup  a  pulpit,  every  leaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers, 
From  loneliest  nook. 

"  'Neath  cloistered  boughs  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth, 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer ; 

"  Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 
Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane  most  catholic  and  solemn 
Which  God  hath  planned  ; 

"  To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply,  — 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ  thunder, 
Its  dome  the  sky. 

"There,  amid  solitude  and  shade,  I  wander 
Through  the  green  aisles,  and,  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God. " 

But  the  traveller  who  journeys  through  the 
northern  provinces  of  Spain  will  look  in  vain 
for  the  charms  of  rural  scenery  in  the  villages 
he  passes.  Instead  of  tr'.m  -cottages,  and  gar 
dens,  and  the  grateful  shade  of  trees,  he  will 
see  a  cluster  of  stone  hovels  roofed  with  red 
tiles  and  basking  in  the  hot  sun,  without  a  sin 
gle  tree  to  lend  him  shade  or  shelter  ;  and  in- 


224      The  Village  of  El  Pardillo 

stead  of  green  meadows  and  woodlands  vocal 
with  the  song  of  birds,  he  will  find  bleak  and 
rugged  mountains,  and  vast  extended  plains, 
that  stretch  away  beyond  his  ken. 

It  was  my  good  fortune,  however,  to  find,  not 
many  leagues  from  the  metropolis,  a  village 
which  could  boast  the  shadow  of  a  few  trees. 
El  Pardillo  is  situated  on  the  southern  slope  of 
the  Guadarrama  Mountains,  just  where  the 
last  broken  spurs  of  the  sierra  stretch  forward 
into  the  vast  table-land  of  New  Castile.  The 
village  itself,  like  most  other  Castilian  villages, 
is  only  a  cluster  of  weather-stained  and  dilapi 
dated  houses,  huddled  together  without  beauty 
or  regularity ;  but  the  scenery  around  it  is 
picturesque, — a  mingling  of  hill  and  dale, 
sprinkled  with  patches  of  cultivated  land  and 
clumps  of  forest-trees  ;  and  in  the  background 
the  blue,  vapory  outline  of  the  Guadarrama 
Mountains  melting  into  the  sky. 

In  this  quiet  place  I  sojourned  for  a  season, 
accompanied  by  the  publican  Don  Valentin 
and  his  fair  daughter  Florencia.  We  took  up 
our  abode  in  the  cottage  of  a  peasant  named 
Lucas,  an  honest  tiller  of  the  soil,  simple  and 
good-natured ;  or,  in  the  more  emphatic  lan 
guage  of  Don  Valentin,  "  un  hombre  muy  infe- 


The  Village  of  El  Pardillo      225 

Us,  y  sin  malicia  ninguna."  Not  so  his  wife 
Matina ;  she  was  a  Tartar,  and  so  mettlesome 
withal,  that  poor  Lucas  skulked  doggedly 
about  his  own  premises,  with  his  head  down 
and  his  tail  between  his  legs. 

In  this  little  village  my  occupations  were 
few  and  simple.  My  morning's  walk  was  to 
the  Cross  of  Espalmado,  a  large  wooden  cruci 
fix  in  the  fields  ;  the  day  was  passed  with 
books,  or  with  any  idle  companion  I  was 
lucky  enough  to  catch  by  the  button,  and 
bribe  with  a  cigar  into  a  long  story,  or  a  little 
village  gossip ;  and  I  whiled  away  the  evening 
in  peeping  round  among  the  cottagers,  study 
ing  the  beautiful  landscape  that  spread  before 
me,  and  watching  the  occasional  gathering  of 
a  storm  about  the  blue  peaks  of  the  Guadar- 
rama  Mountains.  My  favorite  haunt  was  a 
secluded  spot  in  a  little  woodland  valley, 
through  which  a  crystal  brook  ran  brawling 
along  its  pebbly  channel.  There,  stretched  in 
the  shadow  of  a  tree,  I  often  passed  the  hours 
of  noontide  heat,  now  reading  the  magic  num 
bers  of  Garcilaso,  and  anon  listening  to  the 
song  of  the  nightingale  overhead  ;  or  watch 
ing  the  toil  of  a  patient  ant,  as  he  rolled  his 
stone,  like  Sisyphus,  up  hill,  or  the  flight  of  a 
10*  o 


226      The  Village  of  El  Pardillo 

bee  darting  from  flower  to  flower,  and  "  hiding 
his  murmurs  in  the  rose." 

Blame  me  not,  thou  studious  moralist, — 
blame  me  not  unheard  for  this  idle  dreaming ; 
such  moments  are  not  wholly  thrown  away. 
In  the  language  of  Goethe,  "  I  lie  down  in  the 
grass  near  a  falling  brook,  and  close  to  the 
earth  a  thousand  varieties  of  grasses  become 
perceptible.  When  I  listen  to  the  hum  of  the 
little  world  between  the  stubble,  and  see  the 
countless  indescribable  forms  of  insects,  I  feel 
the  presence  of  the  Almighty  who  has  created 
us,  —  the  breath  of  the  All-benevolent  who 
supports  us  in  perpetual  enjoyment." 

The  village  church,  too,  was  a  spot  around 
which  I  occasionally  lingered  of  an  evening, 
when  in  pensive  or  melancholy  mood.  And 
here,  gentle  reader,  thy  imagination  will 
straightway  conjure  up  a  scene  of  ideal  beau 
ty, —  a  village  church  with  decent  white 
washed  walls,  and  modest  spire  just  peeping 
forth  from  a  clump  of  trees !  No  ;  I  will  not 
deceive  thee  ;  —  the  church  of  El  Pardillo  re 
sembles  not  this  picture  of  thy  well-tutored 
fancy.  It  is  a  gloomy  little  edifice,  standing 
upon  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  and  built  of 
dark  and  unhewn  stone,  with  a  spire  like  a  su- 


Tkc  Village  of  El  Par  ditto      227 

gar-loaf.  There  is  no  grass-plot  in  front,  but  a 
little  esplanade  beaten  hard  by  the  footsteps  of 
the  church-going  peasantry.  The  tombstone 
of  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village  serves  as 
a  doorstep,  and  a  single  solitary  tree  throws  its 
friendly  shade  upon  the  portals  of  the  little 
sanctuary. 

One  evening,  as  I  loitered  around  this  spot, 
the  sound  of  an  organ  and  the  chant  of  youth 
ful  voices  from  within  struck  my  ear ;  the 
church  door  was  ajar,  and  I  entered.  There 
stood  the  priest,  surrounded  by  a  group  of 
children,  who  were  singing  a  hymn  to  th^ 
Virgin :  — 

"Ave,  Regina  ccelorum, 
Ave,  Domina  angelorum. " 

There  is  something  exceedingly  thrilling  in 
the  voices  of  children  singing.  Though  their 
music  be  unskilful,  yet  it  finds  its  way  to  the 
heart  with  wonderful  celerity.  Voices  of  cher 
ubs  are  they,  for  they  breathe  of  paradise  ; 
clear,  liquid  tones,  that  flow  from  pure  lips  and 
innocent  hearts,  like  the  sweetest  notes  of  a 
flute,  or  the  falling  of  water  from  a  fountain ! 
When  the  chant  was  finished,  the  priest 
opened  a  little  book  which  he  held  in  his 
hand,  and  began,  with  a  voice  as  solemn  as  a 


228      The  Village  of  El  Pardillo 

funeral  bell,  to  question  this  class  of  roguish 
catechumens,  whom  he  was  initiating  into  the 
mysterious  doctrines  of  the  mother  church. 
Some  of  the  questions  and  answers  were  so 
curious  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  repeating 
them  here ;  and  should  any  one  doubt  their 
authenticity,  he  will  find  them  in  the  Spanish 
catechisms. 

"  In  what  consists  the  mystery  of  the  Holy 
Trinity  ? " 

"  In  one  God,  who  is  three  persons ;  and 
three  persons,  who  are  but  one  God." 

"But  tell  me,  —  three  human  persons,  are 
they  not  three  men  ? " 

"  Yes,  father." 

"Then  why  are  not  three  divine  persons 
three  Gods?" 

"  Because  three  human  persons  have  three 
human  natures ;  but  the  three  divine  persons 
have  only  one  divine  nature." 

"  Can  you  explain  this  by  an  example  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father ;  as  a  tree  which  has  three 
branches  is  still  but  one  tree,  since  all  the 
three  branches  spring  from  one  trunk,  so  the 
three  divine  persons  are  but  one  God,  because 
they  all  have  the  same  divine  nature." 

"Where   were   these   three   divine   persons 


The  Village  of  El  Pardillo      229 

before  the   heavens  and   the  earth  were  cre 
ated?" 

"  In  themselves." 

"  Which  of  them  was  made  man  ?  " 
"  The  Son." 

"  And  after  the  Son  was  made  man,  was  he 
still  God?" 

"  Yes,  father ;  for  in  becoming  man  he  did 

not  cease  to  be  God,  any  more  than  a  man 

when  he  becomes  a  monk  ceases  to  be  a  man." 

"  How  was  the  Son  of  God  made  flesh  ? " 

"  He  was  born  of  the  most  holy  Virgin  Mary." 

"  And  can  we  still  call  her  a  virgin  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father  ;  for  as  a  ray  of  the  sun  may  pass 

through  a  pane  of  glass,  and  the  glass  remain 

unbroken,  so  the  Virgin  Mary,  after  the  birth  of 

her  son,  was  a  pure  and  holy  virgin  as  before."  * 

*  This  illustration  was  also  made  use  of  during  the  dark 
ages.  Pierre  de  Corbiac,  a  Troubadour  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  thus  introduces  it  in  a  poem  entitled  "  Prayer  to  the 
Virgin":  — 

' '  Domna,  verges  pur'  e  fina 
Ans  que  fos  1'  enfantamens, 
Et  apres  tot  eissamens, 
De  vos  trais  sa  earn  humana 
Jhesu-Christ  nostre  salvaire  ; 
Si  com  ses  trencamens  faire 
Intra'l  bel  rais  quan  solelha 
Per  la  fenestra  veirina." 


230      The  Vill.ig:  of  El  Par  ditto 

"  Who  died  to  save  and  redeem  us  ? " 

"  The  Son  of  God  :  as  man,  and  not  as  God." 

"  How  could  he  suffer  and  die  as  man  only, 
being  both  God  and  man,  and  yet  but  one  per 
son  ? " 

"  As  in  a  heated  bar  of  iron  upon  which  wa 
ter  is  thrown,  the  heat  only  is  affected  and  not 
the  iron,  so  the  Son  of  God  suffered  in  his 
human  nature  and  not  in  his  divine." 

"And  when  the  spirit  was  separated  from 
his  most  precious  body,  whither  did  the  spirit 
go?" 

"  To  limbo,  to  glorify  the  souls  of  the  holy 
fathers." 

"And  the  body?" 

"  It  was  carried  to  the  grave." 

"  Did  the  divinity  remain  united  with  the 
spirit  or  with  the  body  ? " 

"With  both.  As  a  soldier,  when  he  un 
sheathes  his  sword,  remains  united  both  with 
the  sword  and  the  sheath,  though  they  are  sep 
arated  from  each  other,  so  did  the  divinity  re 
main  united  both  with  the  spirit  and  the  body 
of  Christ,  though  the  spirit  was  separated  and 
removed  from  the  body." 

I  did  not  quarrel  with  the  priest  for  having 
been  born  and  educated  in  a  different  faith 


The  Village  of  El  Pardillo      231 

from  mine  ;  but  as  I  left  the  church  and  saun 
tered  slowly  homeward,  I  could  not  help  asking 
myself,  in  a  whisper,  "  Why  perplex  the  spirit 
of  a  child  with  these  metaphysical  subtilties, 
these  dark,  mysterious  speculations,  which  man 
in  all  his  pride  of  intellect  cannot  fathom  or  ex 
plain  ? " 

I  must  not  forget,  in  this  place,  to  make 
honorable  mention  of  the  little  great  men  of 
El  Pardillo.  And  first  in  order  comes  the 
priest.  He  was  a  short,  portly  man,  serious  in 
manner,  and  of  grave  and  reverend  presence ; 
though  at  the  same  time  there  was  a  dash  of 
the  jolly-fat-friar  about  him  ;  and  on  hearing  a 
good  joke  or  a  sly  innuendo,  a  smile  would 
gleam  in  his  eye,  and  play  over  his  round  face, 
like  the  light  of  a  glowworm.  His  house 
keeper  was  a  brisk,  smiling  little  woman,  on 
the  shady  side  of  thirty,  and  a  cousin  of  his 
to  boot.  Whenever  she  was  mentioned,  Don 
Valentin  looked  wise,  as  if  this  cousinship 
were  apocryphal  ;  but  he  said  nothing,  —  not 
he  ;  what  right  had  he  to  be  peeping  into 
other  people's  business,  when  he  had  only  one 
eye  to  look  after  his  own  withal  ?  Next  in 
rank  to  the  Dominie  was  the  Alcalde,  justice 
of  the  peace  and  quorum ;  a  most  potent, 


232      The   Village  of  El  Par  ditto 

grave,  and  reverend  personage,  with  a  long 
beak  of  a  nose,  and  a  pouch  under  his  chin, 
like  a  pelican.  He  was  a  man  of  few  words, 
but  great  in  authority  ;  and  his  importance 
was  vastly  increased  in  the  village  by  a  pair  of 
double-barrelled  spectacles,  so  contrived,  that, 
when  bent  over  his  desk  and  deeply  buried  in 
his  musty  papers,  he  could  look  up  and  see 
what  was  going  on  around  him  without  mov 
ing  his  head,  whereby  he  got  the  reputation  of 
seeing  twice  as  much  as  other  people.  There 
was  the  village  surgeon,  too,  a  tall  man  with  a 
varnished  hat  and  a  starved  dog  ;  he  had  stud 
ied  at  the  University  of  Salamanca,  and  was 
pompous  and  pedantic,  ever  and  anon  quoting 
some  threadbare  maxim  from  the  Greek  phi 
losophers,  and  embellishing  it  with  a  commen 
tary  of  his  own.  Then  there  was  the  gray- 
headed  Sacristan,  who  rang  the  church-bell, 
played  on  the  organ,  and  was  learned  in  tomb 
stone  lore  ;  a  Politician,  who  talked  me  to  death' 
about  taxes,  liberty,  and  the  days  of  the  con 
stitution  ;  and  a  Notary  Public,  a  poor  man 
with  a  large  family,  who  would  make  a  paper 
cigar  last  half  an  hour,  and  who  kept  up  his 
respectability  in  the  village  by  keeping  a 
horse. 


The   Village  of  El  Pardillo      233 

Beneath  the  protecting  shade  of  these  great 
men  full  many  an  inhabitant  of  El  Pardillo 
was  born  and  buried.  The  village  continued 
to  flourish,  a  quiet,  happy  place,  though  all 
unknown  to  fame.  The  inhabitants  were 
orderly  and  industrious,  went  regularly  to  mass 
and  confession,  kept  every  saint's  day  in  the 
calendar,  and  devoutly  hung  Judas  once  a  year 
in  effigy.  On  Sundays  and  all  other  holidays, 
when  mass  was  over,  the  time  was  devoted 
to  sports  and  recreation  ;  and  the  day  passed 
off  in  social  visiting,  and  athletic  exercises, 
such  as  running,  leaping,  wrestling,  pitching 
quoits,  and  heaving  the  bar.  When  evening 
came,  the  merry  sound  of  the  guitar  summoned 
to  the  dance ;  then  every  nook  and  alley 
poured  forth  its  youthful  company,  —  light  of 
heart  and  heel,  and  decked  out  in  all  the  holi 
day  finery  of  flowers,  and  ribbons,  and  crimson 
sashes.  A  group  gathered  before  the  cottage- 
door  ;  the  signal  was  given,  and  away  whirled 
the  merry  dancers  to  the  wild  music  of  voice 
and  guitar,  and  the  measured  beat  of  castanet 
and  tambourine. 

I  love  these  rural  dances,  —  from  my  heart  I 
love  them.  This  world,  at  best,  is  so  full  of 
care  and  sorrow,  —  the  life  of  a  poor  man  is  so 


234     The   Village  of  El  Pardillo 

stained  with  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  —  there  is 
so  much  toil,  and  struggling,  and  anguish,  and 
disappointment  here  below,  that  I  gaze  with 
delight  on  a  scene  where  all  these  are  laid 
aside  and  forgotten,  and  the  heart  of  the  toil- 
worn  peasant  seems  to  throw  off  its  load,  and 
to  leap  to  the  sound  of  music,  when  merrily, 

"  beneath  soft  eve's  consenting  star, 
Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  castanet. " 

Not  many  miles  from  the  village  of  El  Par 
dillo  stands  the  ruined  castle  of  Villafranca,  an 
ancient  stronghold  of  the  Moors  of  the  fif 
teenth  century.  It  is  built  upon  the  summit 
of  a  hill,  of  easy  ascent  upon  one  side,  but  pre 
cipitous  and  inaccessible  on  the  other.  The 
front  presents  a  large,  square  tower,  constitut 
ing  the  main  part  of  the  castle  ;  on  one  side  of 
which  an  arched  gateway  leads  to  a  spacious 
court-yard  within,  surrounded  by  battlements. 
The  corner  towers  are  circular,  with  beetling 
turrets ;  and  here  and  there,  apart  from  the 
main  body  of  the  castle,  stand  several  circular 
basements,  whose  towers  have  fallen  and  moul 
dered  into  dust.  From  the  balcony  in  the 
square  tower,  the  eye  embraces  the  level  land 
scape  for  leagues  and  leagues  around ;  and 
beneath,  in  the  depth  of  the  valley,  lies  a  beau- 


The   Village  of  El  Pardillo      235 

tiful  grove,  alive  with  the  song  of  the  nightin 
gale.  The  whole  castle  is  in  ruin,  and  occu 
pied  only  as  a  hunting-lodge,  being  inhabited 
by  a  solitary  tenant,  who  has  charge  of  the 
adjacent  domain. 

One  holiday,  when  mass  was  said  and  the 
whole  village  was  let  loose  to  play,  we  made  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  ruins  of  this  old  Moorish  al 
cazar.  Our  cavalcade  was  as  motley  as  that  of 
old,  —  the  pilgrims  "  that  toward  Canterbury 
wolden  ride"  ;  for  we  had  the  priest,  and  the 
doctor  of  physic,  and  the  man  of  laws,  and  a 
wife  of  Bath,  and  many  more  whom  I  must 
leave  unsung.  Merrily  flew  the  hours  and  fast  ; 
and  sitting  after  dinnei  in  the  gloomy  hall  of 
that  old  castle,  many  a  tale  was  told,  and  many 
a  legend  and  tradition  of  the  past  conjured  up 
to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the  present. 

Most  of  these  tales  were  about  the  Moors 
who  built  the  castle,  and  the  treasures  they 
had  buried  beneath  it.  Then  the  priest  told 
the  story  of  a  lawyer  who  sold  himself  to  the 
devil  for  a  pot  of  money,  and  was  burnt  by  the 
Holy  Inquisition  therefor.  In  his  confession, 
he  told  how  he  had  learned  from  a  Jew  the  se 
cret  of  raising  the  devil ;  how  he  went  to  the 
tastle  at  midnight  with  a  book  which  the  Jew 


236      The   Village  of  El  Par  ditto 

gave  him,  and,  to  make  the  charm  sure,  car 
ried  with  him  a  loadstone,  six  nails  from  the 
coffin  of  a  child  of  three  years,  six  tapers  of 
rosewax,  made  by  a  child  of  four  years,  the 
skin  and  blood  of  a  young  kid,  an  iron  fork, 
with  which  the  kid  had  been  killed,  a  few  hazel- 
rods,  a  flask  of  high-proof  brandy,  and  some 
lignum-vitae  charcoal  to  make  a  fire.  When 
he  read  in  the  book,  the  devil  appeared  in  the 
shape  of  a  man  dressed  in  flesh-colored  clothes, 
with  long  nails,  and  large  fiery  eyes,  and  he 
signed  an  agreement  with  him  written  in 
blood,  promising  never  to  go  to  mass,  and  to 
give  him  his  soul  at  the  end  of  eight  years  ; 
in  return  for  this,  he  was  to  have  a  million  of 
dollars  in  good  money,  which  the  devil  was  to 
bring  to  him  the  next  night ;  but  when  the 
next  night  came,  and  the  lawyer  had  conjured 
from  his  book,  instead  of  the  devil,  there  ap 
peared  —  who  do  you  think  ?  —  the  alcalde 
with  half  the  village  at  his  heels,  and  the  poor 
lawyer  was  handed  over  to  the  Inquisition,  and 
burnt  for  dealing  in  the  black  art 

I  intended  to  repeat  here  some  of  the  many 
tales  that  were  told  ;  but,  upon  reflection,  they 
seem  too  frivolous,  and  must  therefore  give 
place  to  a  more  serious  theme. 


THE  DEVOTIONAL  POETRY  OF 
SPAIN 


Heaven's  dove,  when  highest  he  flies, 
Flies  with  thy  heavenly  wings. 

CRASHAW. 


r  I  ''HERE  is  hardly  a  chapter  in  literary  his- 
-*-  tory  more  strongly  marked  with  the 
peculiarities  of  national  character  than  that 
which  contains  the  moral  and  devotional 
poetry  of  Spain.  It  would  naturally  be  ex 
pected  that  in  this  department  of  literature  all 
the  fervency  and  depth  of  national  feeling 
would  be  exhibited.  But  still,  as  the  spirit  of 
morality  and  devotion  is  the  same,  wherever  it 
exists, —  as  the  enthusiasm  of  virtue  and  relig 
ion  is  everywhere  essentially  the  same  feeling, 
though  modified  in  its  degree  and  in  its  action 
by  a  variety  of  physical  causes  and  local  cir 
cumstances, —  and  as  the  subject  of  the  didac 
tic  verse  and  the  spiritual  canticle  cannot  be 
materially  changed  by  the  change  of  nation 
and  climate,  it  might  at  the  first  glance  seem 
quite  as  natural  to  expect  that  the  moral  and 


238     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

devotional  poetry  of  Christian  countries  would 
never  be  very  strongly  marked  with  national 
peculiarities.  In  other  words,  we  should  ex 
pect  it  to  correspond  to  the  warmth  or  cold 
ness  of  national  feeling,  for  it  is  the  external 
and  visible  expression  of  this  feeling  ;  but  not 
to  the  distinctions  of  national  character,  be 
cause,  its  nature  and  object  being  everywhere 
the  same,  these  distinctions  become  swallowed 
up  in  one  universal  Christian  character. 

In  moral  poetry  this  is  doubtless  true.  The 
great  principles  of  Christian  morality  being 
eternal  and  invariable,  the  verse  which  embod 
ies  and  represents  them  must,  from  this  very 
circumstance,  be  the  same  in  its  spirit  through 
all  Christian  lands.  The  same,  however,  is 
not  necessarily  true  of  devotional  or  religious 
poetry.  There,  the  language  of  poetry  is 
something  more  than  the  visible  image  of  a 
devotional  spirit.  It  is  also  an  expression  of 
religious  faith  ;  shadowing  forth,  with  greater 
or  less  distinctness,  its  various  creeds  and  doc 
trines.  As  these  are  different  in  different  na 
tions,  the  spirit  that  breathes  in  religious  song, 
and  the  letter  that  gives  utterance  to  the  doc 
trine  of  faith,  will  not  be  universally  the  same. 
Thus,  Catholic  nations  sing  the  praises  of  the 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     239 

Virgin  Mary  in  language  in  which  nations  of 
the  Protestant  faith  do  not  unite  ;  and  among 
Protestants  themselves,  the  difference  of  inter 
pretations,  and  the  consequent  belief  or  disbe 
lief  of  certain  doctrines,  give  a  various  spirit 
and  expression  to  religious  poetry.  And  yet, 
in  all,  the  devotional  feeling,,  the  heavenward 
volition,  is  the  same. 

As  far,  then,  as  peculiarities  of  religious  faith 
exercise  an  influence  upon  intellectual  habits, 
and  thus  become  a  part  of  national  character, 
so  far  will  the  devotional  or  religious  poetry  of 
a  country  exhibit  the  characteristic  peculiari 
ties  resulting  from  this  influence  of  faith,  and 
its  assimilation  with  the  national  mind.  Now 
Spain  is  by  pre-eminence  the  Catholic  land  of 
Christendom.  Most  of  her  historic  recollec 
tions  are  more  or  less  intimately  associated 
with  the  triumphs  of  the  Christian  faith ;  and 
many  of  her  warriors  —  of  her  best  and  brav 
est  —  were  martyrs  in  the  holy  cause,  per 
ishing  in  that  war  of  centuries  which  was  car 
ried  on  within  her  own  territories  between  the 
crescent  of  Mahomet  and  the  cross  of  Christ. 
Indeed,  the  whole  tissue  of  her  history  is  inter 
woven  with  miraculous  traditions.  The  inter 
vention  of  her  patron  saint  has  saved  her  hon- 


240     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

or  in  more  than  one  dangerous  pass ;  and  the 
war-shout  of  "  Santiago, y  cierra  Espana  !  "  has 
worked  like  a  charm  upon  the  wavering  spirit 
of  the  soldier.  A  reliance  on  the  guardian 
ministry  of  the  saints  pervades  the  whole  peo 
ple,  and  devotional  offerings  for  signal  preser 
vation  in  times  of  danger  and  distress  cover  the 
consecrated  walls  of  churches.  An  enthusi 
asm  of  religious  feeling,  and  of  external  ritual 
observances,  prevails  throughout  the  land. 
But  more  particularly  is  the  name  of  the  Vir 
gin  honored  and  adored.  Ave  Maria  is  the 
salutation  of  peace  at  the  friendly  threshold, 
and  the  God-speed  to  the  wayfarer.  It  is  the 
evening  orison,  when  the  toils  of  day  are 
done  ;  and  at  midnight  it  echoes  along  the  sol 
itary  streets  in  the  voice  of  the  watchman's  cry. 
These  and  similar  peculiarities  of  religious 
faith  are  breathing  and  moving  through  a 
large  portion  of  the  devotional  poetry  of 
Spain.  It  is  not  only  instinct  with  religious 
feeling,  but  incorporated  with  "the  substance 
of  things  not  seen."  Not  only  are  the  poet's 
lips  touched  with  a  coal  from  the  altar,  but  his 
spirit  is  folded  in  the  cloud  of  incense  that 
rises  before  the  shrines  of  the  Virgin  Mother, 
and  the  glorious  company  of  the  saints  and 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     24 1 

martyrs.  His  soul  is  not  wholly  swallowed  up 
in  the  contemplation  of  the  sublime  attributes 
of  the  Eternal  Mind ;  but,  with  its  lamp 
trimmed  and  burning,  it  goeth  out  to  meet  the 
bridegroom,  as  if  he  were  coming  in  a  bodily 
presence. 

The  history  of  the  devotional  poetry  of 
Spain  commences  with  the  legendary  lore  of 
Maestro  Gonzalo  de  Berceo,  a  secular  priest, 
whose  life  was  passed  in  the  cloisters  of  a  Ben 
edictine  convent,  and  amid  the  shadows  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  The  name  of  Berceo 
stands  foremost  on  the  catalogue  of  Spanish 
poets,  for  the  author  of  the  poem  of  the  Cid  is 
unknown.  The  old  patriarch  of  Spanish  poe 
try  has  left  a  monument  of  his  existence  in  up 
wards  of  thirteen  thousand  alexandrines,  cele 
brating  the  lives  and  miracles  of  saints  and 
the  Virgin,  as  he  found  them  written  in  the 
Latin  chronicles  and  dusty  legends  of  his  mon 
astery.  In  embodying  these  in  rude  verse  in 
roman  paladino,  or  the  old  Spanish  romance 
tongue,  intelligible  to  the  common  people, 
Fray  Gonzalo  seems  to  have  passed  his  life. 
His  writings  are  just  such  as  we  should  expect 
from  the  pen  of  a  monk  of  the  thirteenth  cen 
tury.  They  are  more  ghostly  than  poetical ; 
ii  p 


242     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

and  throughout,  unction  holds  the  place  of 
inspiration.  Accordingly,  they  illustrate  very 
fully  the  preceding  remarks  ;  and  the  more  so, 
inasmuch  as  they  are  written  with  the  most 
ample  and  childish  credulity,  and  the  utmost 
singleness  of  faith  touching  the  events  and 
miracles  described. 

The  following  extract  is  taken  from  one  of 
Berceo's  poems,  entitled " Vida de San Millan" 
It  is  a  description  of  the  miraculous  appear 
ance  of  Santiago  and  San  Millan,  mounted 
on  snow-white  steeds,  and  fighting  for  the 
cause  of  Christendom,  at  the  battle  of  Siman- 
cas  in  the  Campo  de  Toro. 

"  And  when  the  kings  were  in  the  field,  —  their  squadrons  in 

array,  — 

With  lance  in  rest  they  onward  pressed  to  mingle  in  the  fray; 
But  soon  upon  the  Christians  fell  a  terror  of  their  foes,  — 
These  were  a  numerous  army,  —  a  little  handful  those. 

"  And  while  the  Christian  people  stood  in  this  uncertainty, 
Upward  to  heaven  they  turned  their  eyes,  and  fixed  their 

thoughts  on  high  ; 

And  there  two  figures  they  beheld,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 
Even  than  the  pure  new-fallen  snow  their  garments  were 

more  white. 

"  They  rode  upon  two  horses  more  white  than  crystal  sheen, 
And  arms  they  bore  such  as  before  no  mortal  man  had  seen ; 
The  one,  he  held  a  crosier,  —  a  pontiff's  mitre  wore  ; 
The  other  held  a  crucifix,  —  such  man  ne'er  saw  before. 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     243 

"Their  faces  were  angelical,  celestial  forms  had  they,  — 
And  downward  through  the  fields  of  air  they  urged  their 

rapid  way ; 
They  looked  upon  the  Moorish  host  with  fierce  and  angry 

look, 
And  in  their  hands,  with  dire  portent,  their  naked  sabres 

shook. 

"  The  Christian  host,  beholding  this,  straightway  take  heart 

again; 

They  fall  upon  their  bended  knees,  all  resting  on  the  plain, 
And  each  one  with  his  clenched  fist  to  smite  his  breast  begins, 
And  promises  to  God  on  high  he  will  forsake  his  sins. 

"And  when  the  heavenly  knights  drew  near  unto  the  battle 
ground, 
They  dashed  among   the  Moors  and  dealt  unerring  blows 

around ; 

Such  deadly  havoc  there  they  made  the  foremost  ranks  along, 
A  panic  terror  spread  unto  the  hindmost  of  the  throng. 

"  Together  with  these  two  good  knights,  the  champions  of  the 

sky, 

The  Christians  rallied  and  began  to  smite  full  sore  and  high ; 
The  Moors  raised  up  their  voices  and  by  the  Koran  swore 
That  in  their   lives  such  deadly  fray  they  near  had  seen 

before. 

"  Down  went  the  misbelievers,  —  fast  sped  the  bloody  fight,  — 
Some  ghastly  and  dismembered  lay,  and  some  half  dead  with 

fright : 

Full  sorely  they  repented  that  to  the  field  they  came, 
For  they  saw  that  from  the  battle  they  should  retreat  with 

shame. 


244     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

"  Another  thing  befell   them,  —  they  dreamed   not  of  such 

woes,  — 
The  very  arrows  that  the  Moors  shot  from  their  twanging 

bows 
Turned  back  against  them  in  their  flight  and  wounded  them 

full  sore, 
And  every  blow  they  dealt  the  foe  was  paid  in  drops  of  gore. 

"  Now  he  that  bore  the  crosier,  and  the  papal  crown  had  on, 
Was  the  glorified  Apostle,  the  brother  of  Saint  John  ; 
And  he  that  held  the  crucifix,  and  wore  the  monkish  hood, 
Was  the  holy  San  Millan  of  Cogolla's  neighborhood." 

Berceo's  longest  poem  is  entitled  Miraclos  de 
Nuestra  ScTwra,  "  Miracles  of  Our  Lady."  It 
consists  of  nearly  four  thousand  lines,  and  con 
tains  the  description  of  twenty-five  miracles. 
It  is  a  complete  homily  on  the  homage  and 
devotion  due  to  the  glorious  Virgin,  Madre 
de  Jhu  Xto,  Mother  of  Jesus  Christ ;  but  it 
is  written  in  a  low  and  vulgar  style,*  strikingly 
at  variance  with  the  elevated  character  of  the 
subject.  Thus,  in  the  twentieth  miracle,  we 
have  the  account  of  a  monk  who  became  intox 
icated  in  a  wine-cellar.  Having  lain  on  the 
floor  till  the  vesper-bell  aroused  him,  he  stag 
gered  off  towards  the  church  in  most  melan 
choly  plight.  The  Evil  One  besets  him  on  the 
way,  assuming  the  various  shapes  of  a  bull,  a 
dog,  and  a  lion  ;  but  from  all  these  perils  he  is 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     245 

miraculously  saved  by  the  timely  intervention 
of  the  Virgin,  who,  finding  him  still  too  much 
intoxicated  to  make  his  way  to  bed,  kindly 
takes  him  by  the  hand,  leads  him  to  his  pallet, 
covers  him  with  a  blanket  and  a  counterpane, 
smooths  his  pillow,  and,  after  making  the  sign 
of  the  cross  over  him,  tells  him  to  rest  quietly, 
for  sleep  will  do  him  good. 

To  a  certain  class  of  minds  there  may  be 
something  interesting  and  even  affecting  in 
descriptions  which  represent  the  spirit  of  a  de 
parted  saint  as  thus  assuming  a  corporeal 
shape,  in  order  to  assist  and  console  human 
nature  even  in  its  baser  infirmities  ;  but  it 
ought  also  to  be  considered  how  much  such 
descriptions  tend  to  strip  religion  of  its  pecu 
liar  sanctity,  to  bring  it  down  from  its  heav 
enly  abode,  not  merely  to  dwell  among  men, 
but,  like  an  imprisoned  culprit,  to  be  chained 
to  the  derelict  of  principle,  manacled  with  the 
base  desire  and  earthly  passion,  and  forced  to 
do  the  menial  offices  of  a  slave.  In  descrip 
tions  of  this  kind,  as  in  the  representations  of 
our  Saviour  and  of  sainted  spirits  in  human 
shape,  execution  must  of  necessity  fall  far 
short  of  the  conception.  The  handiwork  can 
not  equal  the  glorious  archetype,  which  is  visi- 


246     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

ble  only  to  the  mental  eye.  Painting  and 
sculpture  are  not  adequate  to  the  task  of  em 
bodying  in  a  permanent  shape  the  glorious 
visions,  the  radiant  forms,  the  glimpses  of 
heaven,  which  fill  the  imagination,  when  puri 
fied  and  exalted  by  devotion.  The  hand  of 
man  unconsciously  inscribes  upon  all  his  works 
the  sentence  of  imperfection,  which  the  finger 
of  the  invisible  hand  wrote  upon  the  wall  of 
the  Assyrian  monarch.  From  this  it  would 
seem  to  be  not  only  a  natural  but  a  necessary 
conclusion,  that  all  the  descriptions  of  poetry 
which  borrow  anything,  either  directly  or  indi 
rectly,  from  these  bodily  and  imperfect  repre 
sentations,  must  partake  of  their  imperfection, 
and  assume  a  more  earthly  and  material  char 
acter  than  these  which  come  glowing  and 
burning  from  the  more  spiritualized  percep 
tions  of  the  internal  sense. 

It  is  very  far  from  my  intention  to  utter  any 
sweeping  denunciation  against  the  divine  arts 
of  painting  and  sculpture,  as  employed  in  the 
exhibition  of  Scriptural  scenes  and  personages. 
These  I  esteem  meet  ornaments  for  the  house 
of  God ;  though,  as  I  have  already  said,  their 
execution  cannot  equal  the  high  conceptions 
of  an  ardent  imagination,  yet,  whenever  the 


Los 


Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     247 


fiand  of  a  master  is  visible,  —  when  the  marble 
almost  moves  before  you,  and  the  painting 
starts  into  life  from  the  canvas,  —  the  effect 
upon  an  enlightened  mind  will  generally,  if 
not  universally,  be  to  quicken  its  sensibilities 
and  excite  to  more  ardent  devotion,  by  carry 
ing  the  thoughts  beyond  the  representations  of 
bodily  suffering,  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
intenser  mental  agony,  —  the  moral  sublimity 
exhibited  by  the  martyr.  The  impressions 
produced,  however,  will  not  be  the  same  in  all 
minds  ;  they  will  necessarily  vary  according  to 
the  prevailing  temper  and  complexion  of  the 
mind  which  receives  them.  As  there  is  no 
sound  where  there  is  no  ear  to  receive  the  im 
pulses  and  vibrations  of  the  air,  so  is  there  no 
moral  impression,  —  no  voice  of  instruction 
from  all  the  works  ol  nature,  and  all  the  imita 
tions  of  art,  —  unless  there  be  within  the  soul 
itself  a  capacity  for  hearing  the  voice  and 
receiving  the  moral  impulse.  The  cause  exists 
eternally  and  universally  ;  but  the  effect  is  pro 
duced  only  when  and  where  the  cause  has 
room  to  act,  and  just  in  proportion  as  it  has 
room  to  act.  Hence  the  various  moral  im 
pressions,  and  the  several  degrees  of  the  same 
moral  impression,  which  an  object  may  produce 


248     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

in  different  minds.  These  impressions  will 
vary  in  kind  and  in  degree  according  to  the 
acuteness  and  the  cultivation  of  the  internal 
moral  sense.  And  thus  the  representations 
spoken  of  above  might  exercise  a  very  favor 
able  influence  upon  an  enlightened  and  well- 
regulated  mind,  and  at  the  same  time  a  very 
unfavorable  influence  upon  an  unenlightened 
and  superstitious  one.  And  the  reason  is 
obvious.  An  enlightened  mind  beholds  all 
things  in  their  just  proportions,  and  receives 
from  them  the  true  impressions  they  are  calcu 
lated  to  convey.  It  is  not  hoodwinked,  —  it  is 
not  shut  up  in  a  gloomy  prison,  till  it  thinks 
the  walls  of  its  own  dungeon  the  limits  of 
the  universe,  and  the  reach  of  its  own  chain 
the  outer  verge  of  all  intelligence ;  but  it 
walks  abroad ;  the  sunshine  and  the  air  pour 
in  to  enlighten  and  expand  it ;  the  various 
works  of  nature  are  its  ministering  angels ;  the 
glad  recipient  of  light  and  wisdom,  it  develops 
new  powers  and  acquires  increased  capacities, 
and  thus,  rendering  itself  less  subject  to  error, 
assumes  a  nearer  similitude  to  the  Eternal 
Mind.  But  not  so  the  dark  and  superstitious 
mind.  It  is  filled  with  its  own  antique  and 
mouldy  furniture,  —  the  moth-eaten  tome,  the 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     249 

gloomy  tapestry,  the  dusty  curtain.  The  strag 
gling  sunbeam  from  without  streams  through 
the  stained  window,  and  as  it  enters  assumes 
the  colors  of  the  painted  glass  ;  while  the  half- 
extinguished  fire  within,  now  smouldering  in 
its  ashes,  and  now  shooting  forth  a  quivering 
flame,  casts  fantastic  shadows  through  the 
chambers  of  the  soul.  Within  the  spirit  sits, 
lost  in  its  own  abstractions.  The  voice  of  na 
ture  from  without  is  hardly  audible  ;  her  beau 
ties  are  unseen,  or  seen  only  in  shadowy  forms, 
through  a  colored  medium,  and  with  a  strained 
and  distorted  vision.  The  invigorating  air  does 
not  enter  that  mysterious  chamber ;  it  visits 
not  that  lonely  inmate,  who,  breathing  only  a 
close,  exhausted  atmosphere,  exhibits  in  the 
languid  frame  and  feverish  pulse  the  marks  of 
lingering,  incurable  disease.  The  picture  is 
not  too  strongly  sketched  ;  such  is  the  contrast 
between  the  free  and  the  superstitious  mind. 
Upon  the  latter,  which  has  little  power  over  its 
ideas,  —  to  generalize  them,  to  place  them  in 
their  proper  light  and  position,  to  reason  upon, 
to  discriminate,  to  judge  them  in  detail,  and 
thus  to  arrive  at  just  conclusions  ;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  receives  every  crude  and  inadequate 
impression  as  it  first  presents  itself,  and  treas- 


250     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

ures  it  up  as  an  ultimate  fact,  —  upon  such  a 
mind,  representations  of  Scripture-scenes,  like 
those  mentioned  above,  exercise  an  unfavora 
ble  influence.  Such  a  mind  cannot  rightly 
estimate,  it  cannot  feel,  the  work  of  a  master  ; 
and  a  miserable  painting,  or  a  still  more  mis 
erable  caricature  carved  in  wood,  will  serve 
only  the  more  to  drag  the  spirit  down  to  earth. 
Thus,  in  the  unenlightened  mind,  these  repre 
sentations  have  a  tendency  to  sensualize  and 
desecrate  the  character  of  holy  things.  Being- 
brought  constantly  before  the  eye,  and  repre 
sented  in  a  real  and  palpable  form  to  the  ex 
ternal  senses,  they  lose,  by  being  made  too 
familiar,  that  peculiar  sanctity  with  which  the 
mind  naturally  invests  the  unearthly  and  invis 
ible. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  the  influence  of  the 
circumstances  just  referred  to  upon  the  devo 
tional  poetry  of  Spain.*  Sometimes  it  exhibits 

*  The  following  beautiful  Latin  hymn,  written  by  Francisco 
Xavier,  the  friend  and  companion  of  Loyola,  and  from  his 
zeal  in  the  Eastern  missions  surnamecl  the  Apostle  of  the  In 
dies,  would  hardly  have  originated  in  any  mind  but  that  of 
one  familiar  with  the  representations  of  which  I  have  spoken 
above. 

"  O  Deus  !  ego  amo  te  : 
Nee  amo  te,  ut  salves  me, 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     2  5 1 

itself  directly  and  fully,  sometimes  indirectly 
and   incidentally,  but   always   with   sufficient 

Aut  quia  non  amantes  te 
./Eterno  punis  igne. 

"Tu,  tu,  mi  Jesu,  totum  me 
Amplexus  es  in  cruce. 
Tulisti  clavos,  lanceam, 
Multamque  ignominiam : 
Innumeros  dolores, 
Sudores  et  angores, 
Ac  mortem  :  et  haec  propter  me 

Ac  pro  me  peccatore. 

t 
"  Cur  igitur  non  amem  te, 

O  Jesu  amantissime  ? 
Non  ut  in  coelo  salves  me, 
Aut  ne  selenium  damnes  me, 
Nee  proemii  ullius  spe  : 
Sed  sicut  tu  amasti  me, 
Sic  amo  et  amabo  te : 
Solum  quia  rex  meus  es, 
Et  solum  quia  Deus  es. 
Amen." 

"  O  God  !  my  spirit  loves  but  thee  : 
Not  that  in  heaven  its  home  may  be, 
Nor  that  the  souls  which  love  not  thee 
Shall  groan  in  fire  eternally. 

"  But  thou  on  the  accursed  tree 
In  mercy  hast  embraced  me. 
For  me  the  cruel  nails,  the  spear, 
The  ignominious  scoff,  didst  bear, 


252     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

clearness  to  indicate  its  origin.  Sometimes  it 
destroys  the  beauty  of  a  poem  by  a  miserable 
conceit ;  at  other  times  it  gives  it  the  charac 
ter  of  a  beautiful  allegory.* 

Countless,  unutterable  woes,  — 

The  bloody  sweat,  —  death's  pangs  and  throes,  — 

These  thou  didst  bear,  all  these  for  me, 

A  sinner  and  estranged  from  thee. 

"  And  wherefore  no  affection  show, 
Jesus,  to  thee  that  lov'st  me  so  ? 
Not  that  in  heaven  my  home  may  be, 
Not  lest  I  die  eternally,  — 
Nor  from  the  hopes  of  joys  above  me : 
But  even  as  thou  thyself  didst  love  me, 
So  love  I,  and  will  ever  love  thee  : 
Solely  because  my  King  art  thou, 
My  God  forevermore  as  now. 

Amen." 

*  I  recollect  but  few  instances  of  this  kind  of  figurative 
poetry  in  our  language.  There  is,  however,  one  of  most  ex 
quisite  beauty  and  pathos,  far  surpassing  anything  I  have  seeo 
of  the  kind  in  Spanish.  It  is  a  passage  from  Cowper. 

"  I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since  :  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infixt 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
There  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  himself 
Been  hurt  by  archers  ;  in  his  side  he  bore, 
And  in  his  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts, 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  healed,  and  bade  me  live. " 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     253 

The  following  sonnets  will  serve  as  illustra 
tions.  They  are  from  the  hand  of  the  wonder 
ful  Lope  de  Vega  :  — 

"  Shepherd  !  that  with  thine  amorous  sylvan  song 
Hast  broken  the  slumber  that  encompassed  me, 
That  madest  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree 
On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so  long,  — 
Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains, 
For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  shalt  be, 
I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 
Hear,  Shepherd  !  —  thou  that  for  thy  flock  art  dying, 
O,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 
O,  wait !  —  to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying, — 
Wait  for  me  !  —  yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 
With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  art  waiting  still  for  me  ?  " 

"  Lord,  what  am  I,  that   with  unceasing  care 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  —  that  thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews  before  my  gate, 
And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 
O  strange  delusion  !  —  that  I  did  not  greet 
Thy  blessed  approach  !  and  O,  to  Heaven  how  lost, 
If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 
Hast  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet ! 
How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 
'  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look  without  and  see 
How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  ! ' 
And  O,  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 
'  To-morrow  we  will  open  ! '  I  replied  ; 
And  when  the  morrow  came,  I  answered  still,   'To-mor 
row!'" 


254     Tke  Devotional  Postry  of  Spain 

The  most  remarkable  portion  of  the  devo 
tional  poetry  of  the  Spaniards  is  to  be  found 
in  their  sacred  dramas,  their  Vidas  de  Santos 
and  Autos  Sacramentales.  These  had  their 
origin  in  the  Mysteries  and  Moralities  of  the 
dark  ages,  and  are  indeed  monstrous  creations 
of  the  imagination.  The  Vidas  de  Santos,  or 
Lives  of  Saints,  are  representations  of  their 
miracles,  and  of  the  wonderful  traditions  con 
cerning  them.  The  Autos  Sacramentales  have 
particular  reference  to  the  Eucharist  and  the 
ceremonies  of  the  Corpus  Christi.  In  these  the 
atrical  pieces  are  introduced  upon  the  stage, 
not  only  angels  and  saints,  but  God,  the  Sav 
iour,  the  Virgin  Mary  ;  and,  in  strange  juxta 
position  with  these,  devils,  peasants,  and  kings  ; 
in  fine,  they  contain  the  strangest  medley  of 
characters,  real  and  allegorical,  which  the  im 
agination  can  conceive.  As  if  this  were  not 
enough,  in  the  midst  of  what  was  intended  as 
a  solemn,  religious  celebration,  scenes  of  low 
buffoonery  are  often  introduced. 

The  most  remarkable  of  the  sacred  dramas 
which  I  have  read  is  La  Devotion  de  la  Cruz, 
"The  Devotion  of  the  Cross,"  by  Calderon ;  and 
it  will  serve  as  a  specimen  of  that  class  of  writ 
ing.  The  piece  commences  with  a  dialogue 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     255 

between  Lisardo,  the  son  of  Curcio,  a  decayed 
nobleman,  and  Eusebio,  the  hero  of  the  play 
and  lover  of  Julia,  Lisardo's  sister.  Though 
the  father's  extravagance  has  wasted  his  es 
tates,  Lisardo  is  deeply  offended  that  Eusebio 
should  aspire  to  an  alliance  with  the  family, 
and  draws  him  into  a  secluded  place  in  order 
to  settle  their  dispute  with  the  sword.  Here 
the  scene  opens,  and,  in  the  course  of  the  dia 
logue  which  precedes  the  combat,  Eusebio  re 
lates  that  he  was  born  at  the  foot  of  a  cross, 
which  stood  in  a  rugged  and  desert  part  of 
those  mountains  ;  that  the  virtue  of  this  cross 
preserved  him  from  the  wild  beasts ;  that,  be 
ing  found  by  a  peasant  three  days  after  his 
birth,  he  was  carried  to  a  neighboring  vil 
lage,  and  there  received  the  name  of  Eusebio 
of  the  Cross  ;  that,  being  thrown  by  his  nurse 
into  a  well,  he  was  heard  to  laugh,  and  was 
found  floating  upon  the  top  of  the  water,  with 
his  hands  placed  upon  his  mouth  in  the  form 
of  a  cross  ;  that  the  house  in  which  he  dwelt 
being  consumed  by  fire,  he  escaped  unharmed 
amid  the  flames,  and  it  was  found  to  be  Cor 
pus  Christi  day  ;  and,  in  fine,  after  relating 
many  other  similar  miracles,  worked  by  the 
power  of  the  cross,  at  whose  foot  he  was  born, 


256     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

he  says  that  he  bears  its  image  miraculously 
stamped  upon  his  breast.  After  this  they  fight, 
and  Lisardo  falls  mortally  wounded.  In  the 
next  scene,  Eusebio  has  an  interview  with  Ju 
lia,  at  her  father's  house  ;  they  are  interrupted, 
and  Eusebio  conceals  himself;  Curcio  enters, 
and  informs  Julia  that  he  has  determined  to 
send  her  that  day  to  a  convent,  that  she 
may  take  the  veil,  "para  ser  de  Cristo  esposa." 
While  they  are  conversing,  the  dead  body  of 
Lisardo  is  brought  in  by  peasants,  and  Eusebio 
is  declared  to  be  the  murderer.  The  scene 
closes  by  the  escape  of  Eusebio.  The  second 
act,  or  Jornada,  discovers  Eusebio  as  the  leader 
of  a  band  of  robbers.  They  fire  upon  a  trav 
eller,  who  proves  to  be  a  priest,  named  Al 
berto,  and  who  is  seeking  a  spot  in  those 
solitudes  wherein  to  establish  a  hermitage. 
The  shot  is  prevented  from  taking  effect  by 
a  book  which  the  pious  old  man  carries  in 
his  bosom,  and  which  he  says  is  a  "  treatise 
on  the  true  origin  of  the  divine  and  heavenly 
tree,  on  which,  dying  with  courage  and  forti 
tude,  Christ  triumphed  over  death  ;  in  fine, 
the  book  is  called  the  '  Miracles  of  the  Cross.' " 
They  suffer  the  priest  to  depart  unharmed, 
who  in  consequence  promises  Eusebio  that  he 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     257 

shall  not  die  without  confession,  but  that  wher 
ever  he  may  be,  if  he  but  call  upon  his  name, 
he  will  hasten  to  absolve  him.  In  the  mean 
time,  Julia  retires  to  a  convent,  and  Curcio 
goes  with  an  armed  force  in  pursuit  of  Euse- 
bio,  who  has  resolved  to  gain  admittance  to 
Julia's  convent.  He  scales  the  walls  of  the 
convent  by  night,  and  silently  gropes  his  way 
along  the  corridor.  Julia  is  discovered  sleep 
ing  in  her  cell,  with  a  taper  beside  her.  He 
is,  however,  deterred  from  executing  his  mali 
cious  designs,  by  discovering  upon  her  breast 
the  form  of  a  cross,  similar  to  that  which  he 
bears  upon  his  own,  and  "Heaven  would  not 
suffer  him,  though  so  great  an  offender,  to  lose 
his  respect  for  the  cross."  To  be  brief,  he 
leaps  from  the  convent-walls  and  escapes  to 
the  mountains.  Julia,  counting  her  honor  lost, 
having  offended  God,  "  como  a  Dios,  y  como 
a  esfosa"  pursues  him,  —  descends  the  ladder 
from  the  convent-wall,  and,  when  she  seeks  to 
return  to  her  cell,  finds  the  ladder  has  been 
removed.  In  her  despair,  she  accuses  Heaven 
of  having  withdrawn  its  clemency,  and  vows 
to  perform  such  deeds  of  wickedness  as  shall 
terrify  both  heaven  and  hell. 

The  third  jomada  transports  the  scene  back 


258     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

to  the  mountains.  Julia,  disguised  in  man's 
apparel,  with  her  face  concealed,  is  brought  to 
Eusebio  by  a  party  of  the  banditti.  She  chal 
lenges  him  to  single  combat ;  and  he  accepts 
the  challenge,  on  condition  that  his  antago 
nist  shall  declare  who  he  is.  Julia  discovers 
herself;  and  relates  several  horrid  murders 
she  has  committed  since  leaving  the  convent. 
Their  interview  is  here  interrupted  by  the  en 
trance  of  banditti,  who  inform  Eusebio  that 
Curcio,  with  an  armed  force,  from  all  the 
neighboring  villages,  is  approaching.  The  at 
tack  commences.  Eusebio  and  Curcio  meet, 
but  a  secret  and  mysterious  sympathy  pre 
vents  them  from  fighting ;  and  a  great  num 
ber  of  peasants,  coming  in  at  this  moment, 
rush  upon  Eusebio  in  a  body,  and  he  is  thrown 
down  a  precipice.  There  Curcio  discovers  him, 
expiring  with  his  numerous  wounds.  The  cti- 
nouement  of  the  piece  commences.  Curcio, 
moved  by  compassion,  examines  a  wound  in 
Eusebio's  breast,  discovers  the  mark  of  the 
cross,  and  thereby  recognizes  him  to  be  his 
son.  Eusebio  expires,  calling  on  the  name  of 
Alberto,  who  shortly  after  enters,  as  if  lost 
in  those  mountains.  A  voice  from  the  dead 
body  of  Eusebio  calls  his  name.  I  shall  here 
transcribe  a  part  of  the  scene. 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     259 

ALBERTO. 

Homeward  now  from  Rome  returning, 
In  the  deep  and  silent  pauses 
Of  the  night,  upon  this  mountain 
I  again  have  lost  my  way  ! 
This  must  be  the  very  region 
Where  my  life  Eusebio  gave  me, 
And  I  fear  from  his  marauders 
Danger  threatens  me  to-day  ! 

EUSEBIO. 
Ho  !  Alberto ! 

ALBERTO. 

What  breath  is  it 
Of  a  voice  so  full  of  terror, 
That  aloud  my  name  repeating 
Sounded  then  upon  mine  ear  ? 

EUSEBIO. 
Ho !  Alberto  ! 

ALBERTO. 

It  pronounces 

Yet  again  my  name  ;  methought  it 
Came  in  this  direction.     Let  me 
Go  still  nearer. 

GiL. 

Santo  Dios ! 

'T  is  Eusebio,  and  my  terror 
Of  all  terrors  is  the  greatest ! 

EUSEBIO. 
Ho !  Alberto ! 

ALBERTO. 

Nearer  sounds  it! 
O  thou  voice  that  ridest  swift 


260     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

On  the  wind,  my  name  repeating, 
Who  art  them  ? 

EUSEBIO. 

Eusebio  am  I. 

Come,  Alberto,  hither  hasten, 
Hither,  where  I  buried  lie  ; 
Come,  and  lift  aside  these  branches ; 
Do  not  fear. 

ALBERTO. 
No  fear  have  I. 

GIL. 
I  have  ! 

ALBERTO  (uncovering  Eusebio). 
Now  thou  art  uncovered, 
Tell  me,  in  the  name  of  God, 
What  thou  wishesL 

EUSEBIO. 

In  his  name 

'T  was  my  Faith,  Alberto,  called  thee, 
So  that  ere  my  life  be  ended 
Thou  shouldst  hear  me  in  confession. 
Long  ago  I  should  have  died, 
For  remained  untenanted 
By  the  spirit  this  dead  body ; 
But  the  mighty  blow  of  death 
Only  robbed  it  of  its  motion, 
Did  not  sever  it  asunder. 

He  rises, 

Come  where  I  may  make  confession 
Of  my  sins,  Alberto,  for  they 
More  are  than  the  sands  of  ocean, 
Or  the  atoms  in  the  sun  ! 
So  much  doth  avail  with  Heaven 
The  Devotion  of  the  Cross  ! 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     26 1 

Eusebio  then  retires  to  confess  himself  to  Al 
berto  ;  and  Curcio  afterward  relates,  that,  when 
the  venerable  saint  had  given  him  absolution, 
his  body  again  fell  dead  at  his  feet.  Julia  dis 
covers  herself,  overwhelmed  with  the  thoughts 
of  her  passion  for  Eusebio  and  her  other  crimes, 
and  as  Curcio,  in  a  transport  of  indignation, 
endeavors  to  kill  her,  she  seizes  a  cross  which 
stands  over  Eusebio's  grave,  and  with  it  as 
cends  to  heaven,  while  Alberto  shouts,  "  Gran 
milagro  !  "  and  the  curtain  falls. 

Thus  far  I  have  spoken  of  the  devotional 
poetry  of  Spain  as  modified  by  the  peculiari 
ties  of  religious  faith  and  practice.  Consid 
ered  apart  from  the  dogmas  of  a  creed,  and  as 
the  expression  of  those  pure  and  elevated  feel 
ings  of  religion  which  are  not  the  prerogative 
of  any  one  sect  or  denomination,  but  the  com 
mon  privilege  of  all,  it  possesses  strong  claims 
to  our  admiration  and  praise.  I  know  of  noth 
ing  in  any  modern  tongue  so  beautiful  as 
some  of  its  finest  passages.  The  thought 
springs  heavenward  from  the  soul,  —  the  lan 
guage  comes  burning  from  the  lip.  The  imag 
ination  of  the  poet  seems  spiritualized ;  with 
nothing  of  earth,  and  all  of  heaven,  —  a  heaven 
like  that  of  his  own  native  clime,  without  a 


262     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

cloud,  or  a  vapor  of  earth,  to  obscure  its 
brightness.  His  voice,  speaking  the  harmo 
nious  accents  of  that  noble  tongue,  seems  to 
flow  from  the  lips  of  an  angel,  —  melodious  to 
the  ear  and  to  the  internal  sense,  —  breathing 
those 

"Effectual  whispers,  whose  still  voice 
The  soul  itself  more  feels  than  hears. " 

The  following  sonnets  of  Francisco  de  Alda- 
na,  a  writer  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  his 
conceptions  and  the  harmony  of  his  verse,  are 
illustrations  of  this  remark.  In  what  glowing 
language  he  describes  the  aspirations  of  the 
soul  for  its  paternal  heaven,  its  celestial  home ! 
how  beautifully  he  portrays  in  a  few  lines  the 
strong  desire,  the  ardent  longing,  of  the  exiled 
and  imprisoned  spirit  to  wing  its  flight  away 
and  be  at  rest !  The  strain  bears  our  thoughts 
upward  with  it ;  it  transports  us  to  the  heav 
enly  country  ;  it  whispers  to  the  soul,  —  High 
er,  immortal  spirit !  higher ! 

"  Clear  fount  of  light !  my  native  land  on  high, 
Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade  ! 
Mansion  of  truth  !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath  ; 
But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not  deatk 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     263 

Beloved  country  !  banished  from  thy  shore, 

A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 

The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee  ! 

Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 

Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  way, 

That  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my  dwelling  be." 

"  O  Lord  !  that  seest  from  yon  starry  height 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was  bright ! 
Eternal  Sun  !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast  given 
To  cheer  life's  flowery  April  fast  decays  ; 
Yet  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
Forever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Heaven. 
Celestial  King  !  O,  let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 
As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 
Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it  there, 
And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye." 

The  prevailing  characteristics  of  Spanish 
devotional  poetry  are  warmth  of  imagination, 
and  depth  and  sincerity  of  feeling.  The  con 
ception  is  always  striking  and  original,  and, 
when  not  degraded  by  dogmas,  and  the  poor, 
puerile  conceits  arising  from  them,  beautiful 
and  sublime.  This  results  from  the  frame  and 
temperament  of  the  mind,  and  is  a  general 
characteristic  of  the  Spanish  poets,  not  only  in 
this  department  of  song,  but  in  all  others.  The 
very  ardor  of  imagination  which,  exercised  up- 


264     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

on  minor  themes,  leads  them  into  extravagance 
and  hyperbole,  when  left  to  act  in  a  higher  and 
wider  sphere  conducts  them  nearer  and  nearer 
to  perfection.  When  imagination  spreads  its 
wings  in  the  bright  regions  of  devotional  song, 
—  in  the  pure  empyrean, — judgment  should 
direct  its  course,  but  there  is  no  danger  of  its 
soaring  too  high.  The  heavenly  land  still  lies 
beyond  its  utmost  flight.  There  are  heights  it 
cannot  reach  ;  there  are  fields  of  air  which  tire 
its  wing  ;  there  is  a  splendor  which  dazzles  its 
vision  ;  —  for  there  is  a  glory  "  which  eye  hath 
not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  nor  hath  it  entered 
into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive." 

But  perhaps  the  greatest  charm  of  the  devo 
tional  poets  of  Spain  is  their  sincerity.  Most 
of  them  were  ecclesiastics,  —  men  who  had  in 
sober  truth  renounced  the  realities  of  this  life 
for  the  hopes  and  promises  of  another.  We 
are  not  to  suppose  that  all  who  take  holy 
orders  are  saints  ;  but  we  should  be  still  far 
ther  from  believing  that  all  are  hypocrites.  It 
would  be  even  more  absurd  to  suppose  that 
none  are  sincere  in  their  professions  than  that 
all  are.  Besides,  with  whatever  feelings  a  man 
may  enter  the  monastic  life,  there  is  something 
in  its  discipline  and  privations  which  has  a 
tendency  to  wean  the  mind  from  earth,  and 


The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain     265 

to  fix  it  upon  heaven.  Doubtless  many  have 
seemingly  renounced  the  world  from  motives 
of  worldly  aggrandizement ;  and  others  have 
renounced  it  because  it  has  renounced  them. 
The  former  have  carried  with  them  to  the 
cloister  their  earthly  ambition,  and  the  latter 
their  dark  misanthropy ;  and  though  many 
have  daily  kissed  the  cross  and  yet  grown 
hoary  in  iniquity,  and  shrived  their  souls  that 
they  might  sin  more  gayly  on,  —  yet  solitude 
works  miracles  in  the  heart,  and  many  who 
enter  the  cloister  from  worldly  motives  find  it  a 
school  wherein  the  soul  may  be  trained  to 
more  holy  purposes  and  desires.  There  is  not 
half  the  corruption  and  hypocrisy  within  the 
convent's  walls  that  the  church  bears  the 
shame  of  hiding  there.  Hermits  may  be  holy 
men,  though  knaves  have  sometimes  been  her 
mits.  Were  they  all  hypocrites,  who  of  old 
for  their  souls'  sake  exposed  their  naked 
bodies  to  the  burning  sun  of  Syria  ?  Were 
they,  who  wandered  houseless  in  the  solitudes 
of  Engaddi  ?  Were  they  who  dwelt  beneath 
the  palm-trees  by  the  Red  Sea  ?  O,  no ! 
They  were  ignorant,  they  were  deluded,  they 
were  fanatic,  but  they  were  not  hypocrites  ;  if 
there  be  any  sincerity  in  human  professions 


266     The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 

and  human  actions,  they  were  not  hypocrites. 
During  the  Middle  Ages,  there  was  corrup 
tion  in  the  Church,  —  foul,  shameful  corrup 
tion  ;  and  now  also  hypocrisy  may  scourge  it 
self  in  feigned  repentance,  and  ambition  hide 
its  face  beneath  a  hood ;  yet  all  is  not  there 
fore  rottenness  that  wears  a  cowl.  Many  a 
pure  spirit,  through  heavenly-mindedness,  and 
an  ardent  though  mistaken  zeal,  has  fled  from 
the  temptations  of  the  world  to  seek  in  solitude 
and  self-communion  a  closer  walk  with  God. 
And  not  in  vain.  They  have  found  the  peace 
they  sought.  They  have  felt,  indeed,  what 
many  profess  to  feel,  but  do  not  feel,  —  that 
they  are  strangers  and  sojourners  here,  travel 
lers  who  are  bound  for  their  home  in  a  far 
country.  It  is  this  feeling  which  I  speak  of  as 
giving  a  peculiar  charm  to  the  devotional  poe 
try  of  Spain.  Compare  its  spirit  with  the 
spirit  which  its  authors  have  exhibited  in  their 
lives.  They  speak  of  having  given  up  the 
world,  and  it  is  no  poetical  hyperbole  ;  they 
speak  of  longing  to  be  free  from  the  weakness 
of  the  flesh,  that  they  may  commence  their 
conversation  in  heaven, — and  we  feel  that 
they  had  already  begun  it  in  lives  of  peni 
tence,  meditation,  and  prayer. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY 

If  thou  vouchsafe  to  read  this  treatise,  it  shall  seem  no  otherwise  to  thee 
than  the  way  to  an  ordinary  traveller,  — sometimes  fair,  sometimes  foul ; 
here  champaign,  there  enclosed  ;  barren  in  one  place,  better  soyle  in  an 
other  ;  by  woods,  groves,  hills,  dales,  plains,  I  shall  lead  thee. 

BURTON'S  ANATOMIE  OF  MELANCHOLY. 

THE  glittering  spires  and  cupolas  of  Ma 
drid  have  sunk  behind  me.  Again  and 
again  I  have  turned  to  take  a  parting  look,  till 
at  length  the  last  trace  of  the  city  has  disap 
peared,  and  I  gaze  only  upon  the  sky  above  it. 
And  now  the  sultry  day  is  passed ;  the 
freshening  twilight  falls,  and  the  moon  and 
the  evening  star  are  in  the  sky.  This  river  is 
the  Xarama.  This  noble  avenue  of  trees  leads 
to  Aranjuez.  Already  its  lamps  begin  to 
twinkle  in  the  distance.  The  hoofs  of  our 
weary  mules  clatter  upon  the  wooden  bridge  ; 
the  public  square  opens  before  us  ;  yonder,  in 
the  moonlight,  gleam  the  walls  of  the  royal 
palace,  and  near  it,  with  a  rushing  sound,  fall 
the  waters  of  the  Tagus. 


268          The  Pilgritrfs  Breviary 

WE  have  now  entered  the  vast  and  melan 
choly  plains  of  La  Mancha,  —  a  land  to  which 
the  genius  of  Cervantes  has  given  a  vulgo-clas- 
sic  fame.  Here  are  the  windmills,  as  of  old  ; 
every  village  has  its  Master  Nicholas,  —  every 
venta  its  Maritornes.  Wondrous  strong  are 
the  spells  of  fiction  !  A  few  years  pass  away, 
and  history  becomes  romance,  and  romance, 
history.  To  the  peasantry  of  Spain,  Don 
Quixote  and  his  squire  are  historic  person 
ages  ;  and  woe  betide  the  luckless  wight  who 
unwarily  takes  the  name  of  Dulcinea  upon  his 
lips  within  a  league  of  El  Toboso  !  The  trav 
eller,  too,  yields  himself  to  the  delusion  ;  and 
as  he  traverses  the  arid  plains  of  La  Mancha, 
pauses  with  willing  credulity  to  trace  the  foot 
steps  of  the  mad  Hidalgo,  with  his  "velvet 
breeches  on  a  holiday,  and  slippers  of  the 
same."  The  high-road  from  Aranjuez  to  Cor 
dova  crosses  and  recrosses  the  knight-errant's 
path.  Between  Manzanares  and  Valdepenas 
stands  the  inn  where  he  was  dubbed  a  knight ; 
to  the  northward,  the  spot  where  he  encoun 
tered  the  windmills  ;  to  the  westward,  the  inn 
where  he  made  the  balsam  of  Fierabras,  the 
scenes  of  his  adventures  with  the  fulling- 
mills,  and  his  tournament  with  the  barber ;  and 


The  Pilgriwts  Breviary         269 

to  the  southward,  the  Sierra  Morena,  where 
he  did  penance,  like  the  knights  of  olden 
time. 

For  my  own  part,  I  confess  that  there  are 
seasons  when  I  am  willing  to  be  the  dupe  of 
my  imagination  ;  and  if  this  harmless  folly  but 
lends  its  wings  to  a  dull-paced  hour,  I  am  even 
ready  to  believe  a  fairy  tale. 


ON  the  fourth  day  of  our  journey  we  dined 
at  Manzanares,  in  an  old  and  sombre-looking 
inn,  which,  I  think,  some  centuries  back,  must 
have  been  the  dwelling  of  a  grandee.  A  wide 
gateway  admitted  us  into  the  inn-yard,  which 
was  a  paved  court,  in  the  centre  of  the  edifice, 
surrounded  by  a  colonnade,  and  open  to  the 
sky  above.  Beneath  this  colonnade  we  were 
shaved  by  the  village  barber,  a  supple,  smooth 
faced  Figaro,  with  a  brazen  laver  and  a  gray 
montera  cap.  There,  too,  we  dined  in  the 
open  air,  with  bread  as  white  as  snow,  and  the 
rich  red  wine  of  Valdepenas  ;  and  there,  in  the 
listlessness  of  after-dinner,  smoked  the  sleep- 
inviting  cigar,  while  in  the  court-yard  before 
us  the  muleteers  danced  a  fandango  with  the 
maids  of  the  inn,  to  such  music  as  three  blind 


270         The  Pilgrim's  Breviary 

musicians  could  draw  from  a  violin,  a  guitar, 
and  a  clarinet.  When  this  scene  was  over, 
and  the  blind  men  had  groped  their  way  out 
of  the  yard,  I  fell  into  a  delicious  slumber, 
from  which  I  was  soon  awakened  by  music  of 
another  kind.  It  was  a  clear,  youthful  voice, 
singing  a  national  song  to  the  sound  of  a  gui 
tar.  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  near  me  stood  a 
tall,  graceful  figure,  leaning  against  one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  colonnade,  in  the  attitude  of  a 
serenader.  His  dress  was  that  of  a  Spanish 
student.  He  wore  a  black  gown  and  cassock, 
a  pair  of  shoes  made  of  an  ex-pair  of  boots, 
and  a  hat  in  the  shape  of  a  half-moon,  with 
the  handle  of  a  wooden  spoon  sticking  out 
on  one  side  like  a  cockade.  When  he  had 
finished  his  song,  we  invited  him  to  the  rem 
nant  of  a  Vich  sausage,  a  bottle  of  Valdepe- 
nas,  bread  at  his  own  discretion,  and  a  pure 
Havana  cigar.  The  stranger  made  a  leg,  and 
accepted  these  signs  of  good  company  with 
the  easy  air  of  a  man  who  is  accustomed  to 
earn  his  livelihood  by  hook  or  by  crook;  and 
as  the  wine  was  of  that  stark  and  generous 
kind  which  readily  "  ascends  one  into  the 
brain,"  our  gentleman  with  the  half-moon  hat 
grew  garrulous  and  full  of  anecdote,  and  soon 


The  Pilgrim? s  Breviary          271 

told  us  his  own  story,  beginning  with  his  birth 
and  parentage,  like  the  people  in  Gil  Bias. 

"  I  am  the  son  of  a  barber,"  quoth  he  ;  "  and 
first  saw  the  light  some  twenty  years  ago,  in 
the  great  city  of  Madrid.  At  a  very  early  age, 
I  was  taught  to  do  something  for  myself,  and 
began  my  career  of  gain  by  carrying  a  slow- 
match  in  the  Prado,  for  the  gentlemen  to  light 
their  cigars  with,  and  catching  the  wax  that 
dropped  from  the  friars'  tapers  at  funerals  and 
other  religious  processions. 

"  At  school  I  was  noisy  and  unruly  ;  and 
was  finally  expelled  for  hooking  the  master's 
son  with  a  pair  of  ox-horns,  which  I  had  tied 
to  my  head,  in  order  to  personate  the  bull  in 
a  mock  bull-fight.  Soon  after  this  my  father 
died,  and  I  went  to  live  with  my  maternal  un 
cle,  a  curate  in  Fuencarral.  He  was  a  man  of 
learning,  and  resolved  that  I  should  be  like 
him.  He  set  his  heart  upon  making  a  phy 
sician  of  me  ;  and  to  this  end  taught  me  Latin 
and  Greek. 

"  In  due  time  I  was  sent  to  the  University 
of  Alcala.  Here  a  new  world  opened  before 
me.  What  novelty,  —  what  variety,  —  what 
excitement !  But,  alas !  three  months  were 
hardly  gone,  when  news  came  that  my  wor- 


272          The  Pilgrints  Breviary 

thy  uncle  had  passed  to  a  better  world.  I 
was  now  left  to  shift  for  myself.  I  was  penni 
less,  and  lived  as  I  could,  not  as  I  would.  I 
became  a  sopista,  a  soup-eater,  —  a  knight  of 
the  wooden  spoon.  I  see  you  do  not  under 
stand  me.  In  other  words,  then,  I  became  one 
of  that  respectable  body  of  charity  scholars 
who  go  armed  with  their  wooden  spoons  to 
eat  the  allowance  of  eleemosynary  soup  which 
is  daily  served  out  to  them  at  the  gate  of  the 
convents.  I  had  no  longer  house  nor  home. 
But  necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention.  I 
became  a  hanger-on  of  those  who  were  more 
fortunate  than  myself;  studied  in  other  peo 
ple's  books,  slept  in  other  people's  beds,  and 
breakfasted  at  other  people's  expense.  This 
course  of  life  has  been  demoralizing,  but  it  has 
quickened  my  wits  to  a  wonderful  degree. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  the  life  of  the  Gran  Ta- 
cano,  by  Quevedo  ?  In  the  first  book  you 
have  a  faithful  picture  of  life  in  a  Spanish 
University.  What  was  true  in  his  day  is  true 
in  ours.  O  Alcald  !  Alcala  !  if  your  walls  had 
tongues  as  well  as  ears,  what  tales  could  they 
repeat !  what  midnight  frolics  !  what  madcap 
revelries !  what  scenes  of  merriment  and  mis 
chief  !  How  merry  is  a  student's  life,  and  yet 


The  Pilgrims  Breviary          273 

how  changeable  !  Alternate  feasting  and  fast 
ing,  —  alternate  Lent  and  Carnival,  —  alter 
nate  want  and  extravagance  !  Care  given  to 
the  winds,  —  no  thought  beyond  the  pass 
ing  hour  ;  yesterday,  forgotten,  —  to-morrow, 
a  word  in  an  unknown  tongue  ! 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  raising  the  dead  ? 
not  literally,  —  but  such  as  the  student  raised, 
when  he  dug  for  the  soul  of  the  licentiate  Pe 
dro  Garcias,  at  the  fountain  between  Penafiel 
and  Salamanca,  —  money  ?  No  ?  Well,  it  is 
done  after  this  wise.  Gambling,  you  know,  is 
our  great  national  vice  ;  and  then  gamblers 
are  so  dishonest !  Now,  our  game  is  to  cheat 
the  cheater.  We  go  at  night  to  some  noted 
gaming-house,  —  five  or  six  of  us  in  a  body. 
We  stand  around  the  table,  watch  those  that 
are  at  play,  and  occasionally  put  in  a  trifle 
ourselves  to  avoid  suspicion.  At  length  the 
favorable  moment  arrives.  Some  eager  play 
er  ventures  a  large  stake.  I  stand  behind 
his  chair.  He  wins.  As  quick  as  thought,  I 
stretch  my  arm  over  his  shoulder  and  seize 
the  glittering  prize,  saying  very  coolly,  '  I  have 
won  at  last.'  My  gentleman  turns  round  in  a 
passion,  and  I  meet  his  indignant  glance  with 
a  look  of  surprise.  He  storms,,  and  I  expostu- 

12*  R 


274         The  Pilgriwts  Breviary 

late  ;  he  menaces,  —  I  heed  his  menaces  no 
more  than  the  buzzing  of  a  fly  that  has  burnt 
his  wings  in  my  lamp.  He  calls  the  whole 
table  to  witness  ;  but  the  whole  table  is  busy, 
each  with  his  own  gain  or  loss,  and  there 
stand  my  comrades,  all  loudly  asserting  that 
the  stake  was  mine.  What  can  he  do  ?  there 
was  a  mistake  ;  he  swallows  the  affront  as  best 
he  may,  and  we  bear  away  the  booty.  This 
we  call  raising  the  dead.  You  say  it  is  dis 
graceful,  —  dishonest.  Our  maxim  is,  that  all 
is  fair  among  sharpers  ;  Baylar  al  son  que  se 
toca, —  Dance  to  any  tune  that  is  fiddled.  Be 
sides,  as  I  said  before,  poverty  is  demoralizing. 
One  loses  the  nice  distinctions  of  right  and 
wrong,  of  mewn  and  tuum. 

"  Thus  merrily  pass  the  hours  of  term-time. 
When  the  summer  vacations  come  round,  I 
sling  my  guitar  over  my  shoulder,  and  with 
a  light  heart,  and  a  lighter  pocket,  scour  the 
country,  like  a  strolling  piper  or  a  mendicant 
friar.  Like  the  industrious  ant,  in  summer  I 
provide  for  winter  ;  for  in  vacation  we  have 
time  for  reflection,  and  make  the  great  discov 
ery,  that  there  is  a  portion  of  time  called  the 
future.  I  pick  up  a  trifle  here  and  a  trifle 
there,  in  all  the  towns  and  villages  through 


The  Pilgrim 's  Breviary          275 

which  I  pass,  and  before  the  end  of  my  tour 
I  find  myself  quite  rich  —  for  the  son  of  a 
barber.  This  we  call  the  vida  tunantesca, — 
a  rag-tag-and-bobtail  sort  of  life.  And  yet  the 
vocation  is  as  honest  as  that  of  a  begging 
Franciscan.  Why  not  ? 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,  having  dined  at  your 
expense,  with  your  leave  I  will  put  this  loaf  of 
bread  and  the  remains  of  this  excellent  Vich 
sausage  into  my  pocket,  and,  thanking  you  for 
your'  kind  hospitality,  bid  you  a  good  after 
noon.  God  be  with  you,  gentlemen  !  " 


IN  general,  the  aspect  of  La  Mancha  is  des 
olate  and  sad.  Around  you  lies  a  parched 
and  sunburnt  plain,  which,  like  the  ocean,  has 
no  limits  but  the  sky ;  and  straight  before  you, 
for  many  a  weary  league,  runs  the  dusty  and 
level  road,  without  the  shade  of  a  single  tree. 
The  villages  you  pass  through  are  poverty- 
stricken  and  half-depopulated  ;  and  the  squal 
id  inhabitants  wear  a  look  of  misery  that 
makes  the  heart  ache.  Every  league  or  two, 
the  ruinc  of  a  post-house,  or  a  roofless  cottage 
with  shattered  windows  and  blackened  walls, 
tells  a  sad  tale  of  the  last  war.  It  was  there 


276         The  Pilgrirrfs  Breviary 

that  a  little  band  of  peasantry  made  a  des 
perate  stand  against  the  French,  and  perished 
by  the  bullet,  the  sword,  or  the  bayonet.  The 
lapse  of  many  years  has  not  changed  the 
scene,  nor  repaired  the  battered  wall  ;  and  at 
almost  every  step  the  traveller  may  pause  and 
exclaim  :  — 

"  Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and  the  host ; 
Here  the  bold  peasant  stormed  the  dragon's  nest. " 

From  Valdepefias  southward  the  country 
wears  a  more  lively  and  picturesque  aspect. 
The  landscape  breaks  into  hill  and  valley,  cov 
ered  with  vineyards  and  olive-fields  ;  and  be 
fore  you  rise  the  dark  ridges  of  the  Sierra 
Morena,  lifting  their  sullen  fronts  into  a  heav 
en  all  gladness  and  sunshine.  Ere  long  you 
enter  the  wild  mountain-pass  of  Despena- 
Perros.  A  sudden  turn  in  the  road  brings 
you  to  a  stone  column,  surmounted  by  an 
iron  cross,  marking  the  boundary  line  be 
tween  La  Mancha  and  Andalusia.  Upon  one 
side  of  this  column  is  carved  a  sorry-looking 
face,  not  unlike  the  death's-heads  on  the  tomb 
stones  of  a  country  church-yard.  Over  it  is 
written  this  inscription :  "  EL  VERDADERO 
RETRATO  DE  LA  SANTA  CARA  DEL  DIGS  DE 
XAEN,"  —  The  true  portrait  of  the  holy  coun- 


The  Pilgrints  Breviary         277 

tenance  of  the  God  of  Xaen  !  I  was  so  much 
struck  with  this  strange  superscription  that  I 
stopped  to  copy  it. 

"  Do  you  really  believe  that  this  is  what  it 
pretends  to  be  ?  "  said  I  to  a  muleteer,  who 
was  watching  my  movements. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  he,  shrugging  his 
brawny  shoulders  ;  "  they  say  it  is." 

"  Who  says  it  is  ?  " 

"  The  priest,  —  the  Padre  Cura." 

"  I  supposed  so.  And  how  was  this  por 
trait  taken  ? " 

He  could  not  tell.  The  Padre  Cura  knew 
all  about  it. 

When  I  joined  my  companions,  who  were  a 
little  in  advance  of  me  with  the  carriage,  I  got 
the  mystery  explained.  The  Catholic  Church 
boasts  of  three  portraits  of  our  Saviour,  mirac 
ulously  preserved  upon  the  folds  of  a  hand 
kerchief,  with  which  St.  Veronica  wiped  the 
sweat  from  his  brow,  on  the  day  of  the  cruci 
fixion.  One  of  these  is  at  Toledo,  another  in 
the  kingdom  of  Xaen,  and  the  third  at  Rome. 


THE  impression   which   this   monument   of 
superstition   made  upon   my  mind   was   soon 


278         The  Pilgriiris  Breviary 

effaced  by  the  magnificent  scene  which  now 
burst  upon  me.  The  road  winds  up  the 
mountain-side  with  gradual  ascent  ;  wild, 
shapeless,  gigantic  crags  overhang  it  upon 
the  right,  and  upon  the  left  the  wary  foot 
starts  back  from  the  brink  of  a  fearful  chasm 
hundreds  of  feet  in  depth.  Its  sides  are  black 
with  ragged  pines,  and  rocks  that  have  top 
pled  down  from  above  ;  and  at  the  bottom, 
scarcely  visible,  wind  the  silvery  waters  of  a 
little  stream,  a  tributary  of  the  Guadalquivir. 
The  road  skirts  the  ravine  fcr  miles,  —  now 
climbing  the  barren  rock,  and  now  sliding 
gently  downward  into  shadowy  hollows,  and 
crossing  some  rustic  bridge  thrown  over  a  wild 
mountain-brook. 

At  length  the  scene  changed.  We  stood 
upon  the  southern  slope  of  the  Sierra,  and 
looked  down  upon  the  broad,  luxuriant  val 
leys  of  Andalusia,  bathed  in  the  gorgeous 
splendor  of  a  southern  sunset.  The  land 
scape  had  already  assumed  the  "  burnished 
livery "  of  autumn  ;  but  the  air  I  breathed 
was  the  soft  and  balmy  breath  of  spring, — 
the  eternal  spring  of  Andalusia. 

If  ever  you  should  be  fortunate  enough  to 
visit  this  part  of  Spain  stop  for  the  night  at 


The  Pilgrirrfs  Breviary         279 

the  village  of  La  Carolina.  It  is  indeed  a 
model  for  all  villages,  —  with  its  broad  streets, 
its  neat,  white  houses,  its  spacious  market 
place  surrounded  with  a  colonnade,  and  its 
public  walk  ornamented  with  fountains  and 
set  out  with  luxuriant  trees.  I  doubt  whether 
all  Spain  can  show  a  village  more  beautiful 
than  this. 


THE  approach  to  Cordova  from  the  east  is 
enchanting.  The  sun  was  just  rising  as  we 
crossed  the  Guadalquivir  and  drew  near  to  the 
city  ;  and,  alighting  from  the  carriage,  I  pur 
sued  my  way  on  foot,  the  better  to  enjoy  the 
scene  and  the  pure  morning  air.  The  dew  still 
glistened  on  every  leaf  and  spray ;  for  the  burn 
ing  sun  had  not  yet  climbed  the  tall  hedge-row 
of  wild  figs  and  aloes  which  skirts  the  roadside. 
The  highway  wound  along  through  gardens, 
orchards,  and  vineyards,  and  here  and  there 
above  me  towered  the  glorious  palm  in  all 
its  leafy  magnificence.  On  my  right,  a  swell 
ing  mountain-ridge,  covered  with  verdure  and 
sprinkled  with  little  white  hermitages,  looked 
forth  towards  the  rising  sun  ;  and  on  the  left, 
in  a  long,  graceful  curve,  swept  the  bright  wa 
ters  of  the  Guadalquivir,  pursuing  their  silent 


280         The  Pilgrim 's  Breviary 

journey  through  a  verdant  reach  of  soft  low 
land  landscape.  There,  amid  all  the  luxuri 
ance  of  this  sunny  clime,  arises  the  ancient 
city  of  Cordova,  though  stripped,  alas  !  of  its 
former  magnificence.  All  that  reminds  you  of 
the  past  is  the  crumbling  wall  of  the  city,  and 
a  Saracen  mosque,  now  changed  to  a  Chris 
tian  cathedral.  The  stranger,  who  is  familiar 
with  the  history  of  the  Moorish  dominion  in 
Spain,  pauses  with  a  sigh,  and  asks  himself,  Is 
this  the  imperial  city  of  Alhakam  the  Just, 
and  Abdoulrahman  the  Magnificent  ? 


THIS,  then,  is  Seville,  that  "pleasant  city, 
famous  for  oranges  and  women."  After  all  I 
have  heard  of  its  beauty,  I  am  disappointed  in 
finding  it  less  beautiful  than  my  imagination 
had  painted  it.  The  wise  saw,  — 

"  Quien  no  ha  visto  Se villa, 
No  ha  visto  mara villa,"  — 

He  who  has  not  seen  Seville  has  seen  no 
marvel,  —  is  an  Andalusian  gasconade.  This, 
however,  is  the  judgment  of  a  traveller  weary 
and  wayworn  with  a  journey  of  twelve  succes 
sive  days  in  a  carriage  drawn  by  mules  ;  and 
I  am  well  aware  how  much  our  opinions  of 


The  Pilgrims  Breviary         281 

men  and  things  are  colored  by  these  trivial 
ills.  A  sad  spirit  is  like  a  rainy  day ;  its 
mists  and  shadows  darken  the  brightest  sky, 
and  clothe  the  fairest  landscape  in  gloom. 

I  am,  likewise,  a  disappointed  man  in  an 
other  respect.  I  have  come  all  the  way  from 
Madrid  to  Seville  without  being  robbed !  And 
this,  too,  when  I  journeyed  at  a  snail's  pace, 
and  had  bought  a  watch  large  enough  for  the 
clock  of  a  village  church,  for  the  express  pur 
pose  of  having  it  violently  torn  from  me  by  a 
fierce-whiskered  highwayman,  with  his  blun 
derbuss  and  his,  "  Boca  abajo,  ladrones  !  "  If 
I  print  this  in  a  book,  I  am  undone.  What ! 
travel  in  Spain  and  not  be  robbed  !  To  be 
sure,  I  came  very  near  it  more  than  once.  Al 
most  every  village  we  passed  through  had 
its  tale  to  tell  of  atrocities  committed  in  the 
neighborhood.  In  one  place,  the  stage-coach 
had  been  stopped  and  plundered  ;  in  another, 
a  man  had  been  murdered  and  thrown  into 
ihe  river  ;  here  and  there  a  rude  wooden  cross 
and  a  shapeless  pile  of  stones  marked  the  spot 
where  some  unwary  traveller  had  met  his  fate ; 
and  at  night,  seated  around  the  blazing  hearth 
of  the  inn-kitchen,  my  fellow-travellers  would 
converse  in  a  mysterious  undertone  of  the  dan- 


282          The  Pilgrints  Breviary 

gers  we  were  to  pass  through  on  the  morrow. 
But  the  morrow  came  and  went,  and,  alas  ! 
neither  salteador,  nor  ratero  moved  a  finger. 
At  one  place,  we  were  a  day  too  late  ;  at  an 
other,  a  day  too  early. 

I  am  now  at  the  Fonda  de  los  Americanos. 
My  chamber-door  opens  upon  a  gallery,  be 
neath  which  is  a  little  court  paved  with  mar 
ble,  having  a  fountain  in  the  centre.  As  I 
write,  I  can  just  distinguish  the  tinkling  of 
its  tiny  jet,  falling  into  the  circular  basin  with 
a  murmur  so  gentle  that  it  scarcely  breaks  the 
silence  of  the  night.  At  day-dawn  I  start  for 
Cadiz,  promising  myself  a  pleasant  sail  down 
the  Guadalquivir.  All  I  shall  be  able  to  say 
of  Seville  is  what  I  have  written  above,  —  that 
it  is  "  a  pleasant  city,  famous  for  oranges  and 
women." 


I  AM  at  length  in  Cadiz.  I  came  across  the 
bay  yesterday  morning  in  an  open  boat  from 
Santa  Maria,  and  have  established  myself  in 
very  pleasant  rooms,  which  look  out  upon  the 
Plaza  de  San  Antonio,  the  public  square  of  the 
city.  The  morning  sun  awakes  me,  and  at 
evening  the  sea-breeze  comes  in  at  my  window. 


The  Pilgrim! s  Breviary          283 

At  night  the  square  is  lighted  by  lamps  sus 
pended  from  the  trees,  and  thronged  with  a 
brilliant  crowd  of  the  young  and  gay. 

Cadiz  is  beautiful  almost  beyond  imagina 
tion.  The  cities  of  our  dreams  are  not  more 
enchanting.  It  lies  like  a  delicate  sea-shell 
upon  the  brink  of  the  ocean,  so  wondrous  fair 
that  it  seems  not  formed  for  man.  In  sooth, 
the  Paphian  queen,  born  of  the  feathery  sea- 
foam,  dwells  here.  It  is  the  city  of  beauty 
and  of  love. 

The  women  of  Cadiz  are  world-renowned  for 
their  loveliness.  Surely  earth  has  none  more 
dazzling  than  a  daughter  of  that  bright,  burn 
ing  clime.  What  a  faultless  figure !  what  a 
dainty  foot !  what  dignity !  what  matchless 
grace ! 

"  What  eyes,  — what  lips,  — what  everything  about  her  ! 
How  like  a  swan  she  swims  her  pace,  and  bears 
Her  silver  breasts  ! " 

The  Gaditana  is  not  ignorant  of  her  charms. 
She  knows  full  well  the  necromancy  of  a  smile. 
You  see  it  in  the  flourish  of  her  fan,  —  a  magic 
wand,  whose  spell  is  powerful ;  you  see  it  in 
her  steady  gaze,  the  elastic  step, 

' '  The  veil, 
Thrown  back  a  moment  with  the  glancing  hand, 


284         The  Pilgrim 's  Breviary 

While  the  o'erpowering  eye,  that  turns  you  pale, 
Flashes  into  the  heart" 

When  I  am  grown  old  and  gray,  and  sit  by 
the  fireside  wrapped  in  flannels,  if,  in  a  listless 
moment,  recalling  what  is  now  the  present, 
but  will  then  be  the  distant  and  almost  forgot 
ten  past,  I  turn  over  the  leaves  of  this  journal 
till  my  watery  eye  falls  upon  the  page  I  have 
just  written,  I  shall  smile  at  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  I  have  sketched  this  portrait. 
And  where  will  then  be  the  bright  forms  that 
now  glance  before  me,  like  the  heavenly  crea 
tions  of  a  dream  ?  All  gone,  —  all  gone  !  Or, 
if  perchance  a  few  still  linger  upon  earth,  they 
will  be  bowed  with  age  and  sorrow,  saying 
their  paternosters  with  a  tremulous  voice. 

Old  age  is  a  Pharisee  ;  for  he  makes  broad 
his  phylacteries,  and  wears  them  upon  his 
brow,  inscribed  with  prayer,  but  in  the  "  crook 
ed  autograph  "  of  a  palsied  hand.  "  I  see  with 
pain,"  says  Madame  de  Pompadour,  "that 
there  is  nothing  durable  upon  earth.  We 
bring  into  the  world  a  fair  face,  and  lo  !  in  less 
than  thirty  years  it  is  covered  with  wrinkles  ; 
after  which  a  woman  is  no  longer  good  for 
anything." 

Were  I  to  translate  these  sombre  reflections 


The  Pilgrints  Breviary          285 

into  choice  Castilian,  and  read  them  to  the 
bright-eyed  maiden  who  is  now  leaning  over 
the  balcony  opposite,  she  would  laugh,  and 
laughing  say,  "  Cuando  el  demonio  es  viejo,  se 
metefrayle." 


THE  devotion  paid  at  the  shrine  of  the  Vir 
gin  is  one  of  the  most  prominent  and  charac 
teristic  features  of  the  Catholic  religion.  In 
Spain  it  is  one  of  its  most  attractive  features. 
In  the  southern  provinces,  in  Granada  and  in 
Andalusia,  which  the  inhabitants  call  "  La  ti- 
erra  de  Maria  Santhima"  —  the  land  of  the 
most  holy  Mary,  —  this  adoration  is  ardent 
and  enthusiastic.  There  is  one  of  its  outward 
observances  which  struck  me  as  peculiarly 
beautiful  and  impressive.  I  refer  to  the  Ave 
Maria,  an  evening  service  of  the  Virgin.  Just 
as  the  evening  twilight  commences,  the  bell 
tolls  to  prayer.  In  a  moment,  throughout  the 
crowded  city,  the  hum  of  business  is  hushed, 
the  thronged  streets  are  still ;  the  gay  multi 
tudes  that  crowd  the  public  walks  stand  mo 
tionless  ;  the  angry  dispute  ceases  ;  the  laugh 
of  merriment  dies  away  ;  life  seems  for  a  mo 
ment  to  be  arrested  in  its  career,  and  to  stand 


286          The  Pilgrim's  Breviary 

still.  The  multitude  uncover  their  heads,  and, 
with  the  sign  of  the  cross,  whisper  their  even 
ing  prayer  to  the  Virgin.  Then  the  bells  ring 
a  merrier  peal ;  the  crowds  move  again  in  the 
streets,  and  the  rush  and  turmoil  of  business 
recommence.  I  have  always  listened  with 
feelings  of  solemn  pleasure  to  the  bell  that 
sounded  forth  the  Ave  Maria.  As  it  an 
nounced  the  close  of  day,  it  seemed  also  to  call 
the  soul  from  its  worldly  occupations  to  repose 
and  devotion.  There  is  something  beautiful 
in  thus  measuring  the  march  of  time.  The 
hour,  too,  naturally  brings  the  heart  into 
unison  with  the  feelings  and  sentiments  of  de 
votion.  The  close  of  the  day,  the  shadows  of 
evening,  the  calm  of  twilight,  inspire  a  feeling 
of  tranquillity  ;  and  though  I  may  differ  from 
the  Catholic  in  regard  to  the  object  of  his  sup 
plication,  yet  it  seems  to  me  a  beautiful  and 
appropriate  solemnity,  that,  at  the  close  of 
each  daily  epoch  of  life,  —  which,  if  it  have  not 
been  fruitful  in  incidents  to  ourselves,  has, 
nevertheless,  been  so  to  many  of  the  great  hu 
man  family,  —  the  voice  of  a  whole  people,  and 
of  the  whole  world,  should  go  up  to  heaven  in 
praise,  and  supplication,  and  thankfulness. 


The  Pilgrim's  Breviary          287 

' '  THE  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down 
Through  Granada's  royal  town  \ 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  !  " 

Thus  commences  one  of  the  fine  old  Span 
ish  ballads,  commemorating  the  downfall  of 
the  city  of  Alhama,  where  we  have  stopped  to 
rest  our  horses  on  their  fatiguing  march  from 
Velez-Malaga  to  Granada.  Alhama  was  one 
of  the  last  strongholds  of  the  Moslem  power  in 
Spain.  Its  fall  opened  the  way  for  the  Chris 
tian  army  across  the  Sierra  Nevada,  and 
spread  consternation  and  despair  through  the 
city  of  Granada.  The  description  in  the  old 
ballad  is  highly  graphic  and  beautiful ;  and 
its  beauty  is  well  preserved  in  the  spirited 
English  translation  by  Lord  Byron. 


As  we  crossed  the  Sierra  Nevada,  the  snowy 
mountains  that  look  down  upon  the  luxuriant 
Vega  of  Granada,  we  overtook  a  solitary  rider, 
who  was  singing  a  wild  national  song,  to  cheer 
the  loneliness  of  his  journey.  He  was  an  ath 
letic  man,  and  rode  a  spirited  horse  of  the 
Arab  breed.  A  black  bearskin  jacket  covered 
his  broad  shoulders,  and  around  his  waist  was 


288         The  Pilgrim's  Breviary 

wound  the  crimson  fa/a,  so  universally  worn  by 
the  Spanish  peasantry.  His  velvet  breeches 
reached  below  his  knee,  just  meeting  a  pair  of 
leather  gaiters  of  elegant  workmanship.  A 
gay  silken  handkerchief  was  tied  round  his 
head,  and  over  this  he  wore  the  little  round 
Andalusian  hat,  decked  out  with  a  profusion  of 
tassels  of  silk  and  bugles  of  silver.  The  steed 
he  mounted  was  dressed  no  less  gayly  than  his 
rider.  There  was  a  silver  star  upon  his  fore 
head,  and  a  bright-colored  woollen  tassel  be 
tween  his  ears  ;  a  blanket  striped  with  blue  and 
red  covered  the  saddle,  and  even  the  Moorish 
stirrups  were  ornamented  with  brass  studs. 

This  personage  was  a  contrabandista,  —  a 
smuggler  between  Granada  and  the  seaport  of 
Velez-Malaga.  The  song  he  sung  was  one  of 
the  popular  ballads  of  the  country. 

"  Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  steed, 
And  I  march  me  hurried,  worried  ; 
Onward  !  caballito  mio, 
With  the  white  star  in  thy  forehead  ! 
Onward  !  for  here  conies  the  Ronda, 
And  I  hear  their  rifles  crack  ! 
Ay,  jaleo  !     Ay,  ay,  jaleo  ! 
Ay,  jaleo  !  they  cross  our  track  !  "  * 

*  I  here  transcribe  the  original  of  which  this  is  a  single 
stanza.     Its  only  merit  is  simplicity,  and  a  certain  grace  which 


The  Pilgrints  Breviary          289 

The  air  to  which  these  words  are  sung  is 
wild  and  high ;  and  the  prolonged  and  mourn 
ful  cadence  gives  it  the  sound  of  a  funeral  wail, 
or  a  cry  for  help.  To  have  its  full  effect 
upon  the  mind,  it  should  be  heard  by  night,  in 
some  wild  mountain-pass,  and  from  a  distance. 

belongs  to  its  provincial  phraseology,  and  which  would  be  lost 
in  a  translation. 

"  Yo  que  soy  contrabandista, 
Y  campo  por  mi  respeto, 
A  todos  los  desafio, 
Porque  a  naide  tengo  mieo. 
i  Ay,  jaleo  !     j  Muchachas,  jaleo  ! 
i  Quien  me  compra  jilo  negro  ? 

"  Mi  caballo  esta  cansao, 
Y  yo  me  marcho  corriendo. 
;  Anda,  caballito  mio, 
Caballo  mio  care  to  ! 
i  Anda,  que  viene  la  ronda, 
Y  se  mueve  el  tiroteo  ! 
j   Ay,  jaleo  !     i  Ay,  ay,  jaleo  ! 
i  Ay,  jaleo,  que  nos  cortan  ! 
Sacame  de  aqueste  aprieto. 

"  Mi  caballo  ya  no  corre, 
Ya  mi  caballo  paro. 
Todo  para  en  este  mundo, 
Tambien  he  de  parar  yo. 
;Ay,  jaleo  !     ;  Muchachas,  jaleo  I 
i  Quien  me  compra  jilo  negro  ?  " 

13  * 


290         The  Pilgrints  Breviary 

Then  the  harsh  tones  come  softened  to  the 
ear,  and,  in  unison  with  the  hour  and  the 
scene,  produce  a  pleasing  melancholy. 

The  contrabandista  accompanied  us  to  Gra 
nada.  The  sun  had  already  set  when  we  en 
tered  the  Vega,  —  those  luxuriant  meadows 
which  stretch  away  to  the  south  and  west  of 
the  city,  league  after  league  of  rich,  unbroken 
verdure.  It  was  Saturday  night ;  and,  as  the 
gathering  twilight  fell  around  us,  and  one  by 
one  the  lamps  of  the  city  twinkled  in  the  dis 
tance,  suddenly  kindling  here  and  there,  as 
the  stars  start  to  their  places  in  the  evening 
sky,  a  loud  peal  of  bells  rang  forth  its  glad 
welcome  to  the  day  of  rest,  over  the  meadows 
to  the  distant  hills,  "  swinging  slow,  with  sol 
emn  roar." 


Is  this  reality  and  not  a  dream  ?  Am  I  in 
deed  in  Granada  ?  Am  I  indeed  within  the 
walls  of  that  earthly  paradise  of  the  Moorish 
kings  ?  How  my  spirit  is  stirred  within  me  ! 
How  my  heart  is  lifted  up  !  How  my  thoughts 
are  rapt  away  in  the  visions  of  other  days  ! 

Ave,  Maria  purissima !  It  is  midnight. 
The  bell  has  tolled  the  hour  from  the  watch- 
tower  of  the  Alhambra  ;  and  the  silent  street 


Tke  Pilgrim's  Breviary          291 

echoes  only  to  the  watchman's  cry,  Ave,  Ma 
ria  purissima  !  I  am  alone  in  my  chamber,  — 
sleepless,  —  spell-bound  by  the  genius  of  the 
place,  —  entranced  by  the  beauty  of  the  star 
lit  night.  As  I  gaze  from  my  window,  a  sud 
den  radiance  brightens  in  the  east.  It  is  the 
moon,  rising  behind  the  Alhambra.  I  can 
faintly  discern  the  dusky  and  indistinct  out 
line  of  a  massive  tower,  standing  amid  the  un 
certain  twilight,  like  a  gigantic  shadow.  It 
changes  with  the  rising  moon,  as  a  palace  in 
the  clouds,  and  other  towers  and  battlements 
arise,  —  every  moment  more  distinct,  more  pal 
pable,  till  now  they  stand  between  me  and  the 
sky,  with  a  sharp  outline,  distant,  and  yet  so 
near  that  I  seem  to  sit  within  their  shadow. 

Majestic  spirit  of  the  night,  I  recognize 
thee!  Thou  hast  conjured  up  this  glorious  vis 
ion  for  thy  votary.  Thou  hast  baptized  me 
with  thy  baptism.  Thou  hast  nourished  my 
soul  with  fervent  thoughts  and  holy  aspira 
tions,  and  ardent  longings  after  the  beautiful 
and  the  true.  Majestic  spirit  of  the  past,  I 
recognize  thee  !  Thou  hast  bid  the  shadow 
go  back  for  me  upon  the  dial-plate  of  time. 
Thou  hast  taught  me  to  read  in  thee  the  pres 
ent  and  the  future,  —  a  revelation  of  man's 


292          The  Pilgrim's  Breviary 

destiny  on  earth.  Thou  hast  taught  me  to 
see  in  thee  the  principle  that  unfolds  itself 
from  century  to  century  in  the  progress  of  our 
race,  —  the  germ  in  whose  bosom  lie  unfolded 
the  bud,  the  leaf,  the  tree.  Generations  per 
ish,  like  the  leaves  of  the  forest,  passing  away 
when  their  mission  is  completed  ;  but  at  each 
succeeding  spring,  broader  and  higher  spreads 
the  human  mind  unto  its  perfect  stature,  unto 
the  fulfilment  of  its  destiny,  unto  the  perfec 
tion  of  its  nature.  And  in  these  high  revela 
tions,  thou  hast  taught  me  more,  —  thoti  hast 
taught  me  to  feel  that  I,  too,  weak,  humble, 
and  unknown,  feeble  of  purpose  and  irreso 
lute  of  good,  have  something  to  accomplish 
upon  earth,  —  like  the  falling  leaf,  like  the 
passing  wind,  like  the  drop  of  rain.  O  glo 
rious  thought !  that  lifts  me  above  the  power 
of  time  and  chance,  and  tells  me  that  I  cannot 
pass  away,  and  leave  no  mark  of  my  existence. 
I  may  not  know  the  purpose  of  my  being,  — i 
the  end  for  which  an  all-wise  Providence  cre 
ated  me  as  I  am,  and  placed  me  where  I  am  ; 
but  I  do  know  —  for  in  such  things  faith  is 
knowledge  —  that  my  being  has  a  purpose  in 
the  omniscience  of  my  Creator,  and  that  all 
my  actions  tend  to  the  completion,  to  the  full 


The  Pilgrims  Breviary          293 

accomplishment  of  that  purpose.  Is  this  fatal 
ity  ?  No.  I  feel  that  I  am  free,  though  an  in 
finite  and  invisible  power  overrules  me.  Man 
proposes,  and  God  disposes.  This  is  one  of 
the  many  mysteries  in  our  being  which  hu 
man  reason  cannot  find  out  by  searching. 

Yonder  towers,  that  stand  so  huge  and  mas 
sive  in  the  midnight  air,  the  work  of  human 
hands  that  have  long  since  forgotten  their  cun 
ning  in  the  grave,  and  once  the  home  of  hu 
man  beings  immortal  as  ourselves,  and  filled 
like  us  with  hopes  and  fears,  and  powers  of 
good  and  ill,  —  are  lasting  memorials  of  their 
builders  ;  inanimate  material  forms,  yet  living 
with  the  impress  of  a  creative  mind.  These 
are  landmarks  of  other  times.  Thus  from  the 
distant  past  the  history  of  the  human  race 
is  telegraphed  from  generation  to  generation, 
through  the  present  to  all  succeeding  ages. 
These  are  manifestations  of  the  human  mind 
at  a  remote  period  of  its  history,  and  among 
a  people  who  came  from  another  clime,  —  the 
children  of  the  desert.  Their  mission  is  ac 
complished,  and  they  are  gone ;  yet  leaving 
behind  them  a  thousand  records  of  themselves 
and  of  their  ministry,  not  as  yet  fully  manifest, 
but  "  seen  through  a  glass  darkly,"  dimly  shad- 


294         The  PUgrints  Breviary 

owed  forth  in  the  language,  and  character,  and 
manners,  and  history  of  the  nation,  that  was  by 
turns  the  conquered  and  the  conquering.  The 
Goth  sat  at  the  Arab's  feet  ;  and  athwart  the 
cloud  and  storm  of  war,  streamed  the  light  of 
Oriental  learning  upon  the  Western  world,  — 

"As  when  the  autumnal  sun, 
Through  travelling  rain  and  mist, 
Shines  on  the  evening  hills." 


THIS  morning  I  visited  the  Alhambra  ;  an 
enchanted  palace,  whose  exquisite  beauty  baf 
fles  the  power  of  language  to  describe.  Its 
outlines  may  be  drawn,  —  its  halls  and  gal 
leries,  its  court-yards  and  its  fountains,  num 
bered  ;  but  what  skilful  limner  shall  portray 
in  words  its  curious  architecture,  the  grotesque 
ornaments,  the  quaint  devices,  the  rich  tracery 
of  the  walls,  the  ceilings  inlaid  with  pearl  and 
tortoise-shell  ?  what  language  paint  the  magic 
hues  of  light  and  shade,  the  shimmer  of  the 
sunbeam  as  it  falls  upon  the  marble  pavement, 
and  the  brilliant  panels  inlaid  with  many-col 
ored  stones  ?  Vague  recollections  fill  my 
mind,  —  images  dazzling  but  undefined,  like 
the  memory  of  a  gorgeous  dream.  They 


The  Pilgrints  Breviary         295 

crowd  my  brain  confusedly,  but  they  will 
not  stay  ;  they  change  and  mingle,  like  the 
tremulous  sunshine  on  the  wave,  till  imagi 
nation  itself  is  dazzled,  —  bewildered,  —  over 
powered  ! 

What  most  arrests  the  stranger's  foot  within 
the  walls  of  the  Alhambra  is  the  refinement  of 
luxury  which  he  sees  at  every  step.  He  lin 
gers  in  the  deserted  bath,  —  he  pauses  to  gaze 
upon  the  now  vacant  saloon,  where,  stretched 
upon  his  gilded  couch,  the  effeminate  monarch 
of  the  East  was  wooed  to  sleep  by  softly-breath 
ing  music.  What  more  delightful  than  this 
secluded  garden,  green  with  the  leaf  of  the 
myrtle  and  the  orange,  and  freshened  with 
the  gush  of  fountains,  beside  whose  basin 
the  nightingale  still  wooes  the  blushing  rose  ? 
What  more  fanciful,  more  exquisite,  more  like 
a  creation  of  Oriental  magic,  than  the  lofty 
tower  of  the  Tocador,  —  its  airy  sculpture  re 
sembling  the  fretwork  of  wintry  frost,  and 
its  windows  overlooking  the  romantic  valley 
of  the  Darro  ;  and  the  city,  with  its  gar 
dens,  domes,  and  spires,  far,  far  below  ?  Cool 
through  this  lattice  comes  the  summer  wind 
from  the  icy  summits  of  the  Sierra  Nevada. 
Softly  in  yonder  fountain  falls  the  crystal  wa- 


296          The  Pilgriwts  Breviary 

ter,  dripping  from  its  marble  vase  with  never- 
ceasing  sound.  On  every  side  comes  up  the 
fragrance  of  a  thousand  flowers,  the  murmur 
of  innumerable  leaves  ;  and  overhead  is  a  sky 
where  not  a  vapor  floats,  —  as  soft,  and  blue, 
and  radiant  as  the  eye  of  childhood  ! 

Such  is  the  Alhambra  of  Granada  ;  a  for 
tress,  —  a  palace,  —  an  earthly  paradise,  —  a 
ruin,  wonderful  in  its  fallen  greatness  1 


THE  JOURNEY   INTO   ITALY 


What  I  catch  is  at  present  only  sketch-ways,  as  it  were  ;  but  I  prepare 
myself  betimes  for  the  Italian  journey. 

GOETHE'S  FAUST. 


ON  the  afternoon  of  the  i$th  of  Decem 
ber,  in  the  year  of  grace  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  twenty-seven,  I  left  Mar 
seilles  for  Genoa,  taking  the  sea-shore  road 
through  Toulon,  Draguignan,  and  Nice.  This 
journey  is  written  in  ray  memory  with  a  sun 
beam.  We  were  a  company  whom  chance  had 
thrown  together,  —  different  in  ages,  humors, 
and  pursuits,  —  and  yet  so  merrily  the  days 
went  by,  in  sunshine,  wind,  or  rain,  that  me- 
thinks  some  lucky  star  must  have  ruled  the 
hour  that  brought  us  five  so  auspiciously 
together.  But  where  is  now  that  merry  com 
pany  ?  One  sleeps  in  his  youthful  grave  ;  two 
sit  in  their  fatherland,  and  "coin  their  brain 
for  their  daily  bread "  ;  and  the  others,  — 
where  are  they  ?  If  still  among  the  living,  I 
beg  them  to  remember  in  their  prayers  the 
humble  historian  of  their  journey  into  Italy. 
13* 


298          The  Journey  into  Italy 

At  Toulon  we  took  a  private  carriage  in  or 
der  to  pursue  our  journey  more  leisurely  and 
more  at  ease.  I  well  remember  the  strange, 
outlandish  vehicle,  and  our  vetturino  Joseph, 
with  his  blouse,  his  short-stemmed  pipe,  his 
limping  gait,  his  comical  phiz,  and  the  lowland 
dialect  his  mother  taught  him  at  Avignon. 
Every  scene,  every  incident  of  the  journey  is 
now  before  me  as  if  written  in  a  book.  The 
sunny  landscapes  of  the  Var,  —  the  peasant 
girls,  with  their  broad-brimmed  hats  of  straw, 

—  the  inn  at  Draguignan,  with  its  painting  of 
a  lady  on  horseback,  underwritten  in  French 
and  English,  "  Une  jeune  dame  a  la  promenade, 

—  A  young  ladi  taking  a  walk," —  the  mould 
ering  arches  of  the  Roman  aqueducts  at  Fre- 
jus,  standing  in  the  dim  twilight  of  morning 
like   shadowy  apparitions  of  the   past,  —  the 
wooded  bridge  across  the  Var,  —  the  glorious 
amphitheatre  of  hills  that  half  encircle  Nice, 

—  the  midnight  scene  at  the  village  inn  of  Mo 
naco, — the  mountain-road  overhanging  the  sea 
at  a  dizzy  height,  and  its  long,  dark  passages 
cut   through   the   solid   rock,  —  the  tumbling 
mountain-torrent,  —  and  a  fortress  perched  on 
a  jutting  spur  of  the  Alps  ;  these,  and  a  thou 
sand  varied  scenes  and  landscapes  of  this  jour-- 


The  Journey  into  Italy          299 

ney,  rise  before  me,  as  if  still  visible  to  the 
eye  of  sense,  and  not  to  that  of  memory  only. 
And  yet  I  will  not  venture  upon  a  minute  de 
scription  of  them.  I  have  not  colors  bright 
enough  for  such  landscapes ;  and  besides,  even 
the  most  determined  lovers  of  the  picturesque 
grow  weary  of  long  descriptions  ;  though,  as 
the  French  guide-book  says  of  these  scenes, 
"  Tout  cela  fait  sans  doute  un  spectacle  admi 
rable  !  " 


ON  *  the  tenth  day  of  our  journey,  we 
reached  Genoa,  the  city  of  palaces,  —  the  su 
perb  city.  The  writer  of  an  old  book,  called 
"  Time's  Storehouse,"  thus  poetically  describes 
its  situation  :  —  "  This  cittie  is  most  proudly 
built  upon  the  seacoast  and  the  downefall  of 
the  Appenines,  at  the  foot  of  a  mountaine  ; 
even  as  if  she  were  descended  downe  the 
mount,  and  come  to  repose  herselfe  uppon  a 
plaine." 

It  was  Christmas  eve,  —  a  glorious  night  ! 
I  stood  at  midnight  on  the  wide  terrace  of 
our  hotel,  which  overlooks  the  sea,  and,  gaz 
ing  on  the  tiny  and  crisping  waves  that  broke 
in  pearly  light  beneath  the  moon,  sent  back  my 
wandering  thoughts  far  over  the  sea,  to  a  dis- 


3OO          The  Journey  into  Italy 

tant  home.  The  jangling  music  of  church- 
bells  aroused  me  from  my  dream.  It  was  the 
sound  of  jubilee  at  the  approaching  festival  of 
the  Nativity,  and  summoned  alike  the  pious 
devotee,  the  curious  stranger,  and  the  gallant 
lover  to  the  church  of  the  Annunziata. 

I  descended  from  the  terrace,  and,  groping 
my  way  through  one  of  the  dark  and  narrow 
lanes  which  intersect  the  city  in  all  directions, 
soon  found  myself  in  the  Strada  Nuova.  The 
long  line  of  palaces  lay  half  in  shadow,  half  in 
light,  stretching  before  me  in  magical  perspec 
tive,  like  the  long  vapory  opening  of  a  cloud 
in  the  summer  sky.  Following  the  various 
groups  that  were  passing  onward  towards  the 
public  square,  I  entered  the  church,  where 
midnight  mass  was  to  be  chanted.  A  daz 
zling  blaze  of  light  from  the  high  altar  shone 
upon  the  red  marble  columns  which  support 
the  roof,  and  fell  with  a  solemn  effect  upon 
ihe  kneeling  crowd  that  filled  the  body  of  the 
church.  All  beyond  was  in  darkness  ;  and 
from  that  darkness  at  intervals  burst  forth 
the  deep  voice  of  the  organ  and  the  chanting 
of  the  choir,  filling  the  soul  with  solemnity 
and  awe.  And  yet,  among  that  prostrate 
crowd,  how  many  had  been  drawn  thither  by 


The  Journey  into  Italy          301 

unworthy  motives,  —  motives  even  more  un 
worthy  than  mere  idle  curiosity !  How  many 
sinful  purposes  arose  in  souls  unpurified,  and 
mocked  at  the  bended  knee  !  How  many  a 
heart  beat  wild  with  earthly  passion,  while 
the  unconscious  lip  repeated  the  accustomed 
prayer  !  Immortal  spirit !  canst  thou  so  heed 
lessly  resist  the  imploring  voice  that  calls  thee 
from  thine  errors  and  pollutions  ?  Is  not  the 
long  day  long  enough,  is  not  the  wide  world 
wide  enough,  has  not  society  frivolity  enough 
for  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  seek  out  this  mid 
night  hour,  this  holy  place,  this  solemn  sacri 
fice,  to  add  irreverence  to  thy  folly  ? 

In  the  shadow  of  a  column  stood  a  young 
man  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  earnestly  conversing 
in  a  low  whisper  with  a  female  figure,  so 
veiled  as  to  hide  her  face  from  the  eyes  of 
all  but  her  companion.  At  length  they  sepa 
rated.  The  young  man  continued  leaning 
against  the  column,  and  the  girl,  gliding  si 
lently  along  the  dimly  lighted  aisle,  mingled 
with  the  crowd,  and  threw  herself  upon  her 
knees.  Beware,  poor  girl,  thought  I,  lest  thy 
gentle  nature  prove  thy  undoing  !  Perhaps, 
alas,  thou  art  already  undone  !  And  I  almost 
heard  the  evil  spirit  whisper,  as  in  the  Faust, 


302          The  Journey  into  Italy 

"  How  different  was  it  with  thee,  Margaret, 
when,  still  full  of  innocence,  thou  earnest  to 
the  altar  here,  —  out  of  the  well-worn  little 
book  lispedst  prayers,  half  child-sport,  half 
God  in  the  heart !  Margaret,  where  is  thy 
head  ?  What  crime  in  thy  heart  !  " 

The  city  of  Genoa  is  magnificent  in  parts, 
but  not  as  a  whole.  The  houses  are  high,  and 
the  streets  in  general  so  narrow  that  in  many 
of  them  you  may  almost  step  across  from  side 
to  side.  They  are  built  to  receive  the  cool  sea- 
breeze,  and  shut  out  the  burning  sun.  Only 
three  of  them  —  if  my  memory  serves  me  — 
are  wide  enough  to  admit  the  passage  of  car 
riages  ;  and  these  three  form  but  one  contin 
uous  street,  —  the  street  of  palaces.  They  are 
the  Strada  Nuova,  the  Strada  Novissima,  and 
the  Strada  Balbi,  which  connect  the  Piazza 
Amorosa  with  the  Piazza  dell'  Annunziata. 
These  palaces,  the  Doria,  the  Durazzo,  the 
Ducal  Palace,  and  others  of  less  magnifi 
cence,  —  with  their  vast  halls,  their  marble 
staircases,  vestibules,  and  terraces,  and  the  as 
pect  of  splendor  and  munificence  they  wear, 
—  have  given  this  commercial  city  the  title 
of  Genoa  the  Superb.  And,  as  if  to  humble 
her  pride,  some  envious  rival  among  the  Ital- 


The  Journey  into  Italy          303 

ian  cities  has  launched  at  her  a  biting  sar 
casm  in  the  well  known  proverb,  "Mare  senza 
pesce,  uomini  senza  fede,  e  donne  senza  vergo- 
gna"  —  A  sea  without  fish,  men  without  faith, 
and  women  without  shame  ! 


THE  road  from  Genoa  to  Lucca  strong 
ly  resembles  that  from  Nice  to  Genoa.  It 
runs  along  the  seaboard,  now  dipping  to  the 
water's  edge,  and  now  climbing  the  zigzag 
mountain-pass,  with  toppling  crags,  and  yawn 
ing  chasms,  and  verdant  terraces  of  vines 
and  olive-trees.  Many  a  sublime  and  many 
a  picturesque  landscape  catches  the  travel 
ler's  eye,  now  almost  weary  with  gazing ;  and 
still  brightly  painted  upon  my  mind  lies  a 
calm  evening  scene  on  the  borders  of  the 
Gulf  of  Spezia,  with  its  broad  sheet  of  crys 
tal  water,  —  the  blue-tinted  hills  that  form  its 
oval  basin,  —  the  crimson  sky  above,  and  its 
bright  reflection,  — 

"  Where  it  lay 

Deep  bosomed  in  the  still  and  quiet  bay, 
The  sea  reflecting  ail  that  glowed  above, 
Till  a  new  sky,  softer  but  not  so  gay, 
Arched  in  its  bosom,  trembled  like  a  dove." 


304          The  Journey  into  Italy 

PISA,  the  melancholy  city,  with  its  Leaning 
Tower,  its  Campo  Santo,  its  bronze-gated  ca 
thedral,  and  its  gloomy  palaces,  —  Florence 
the  Fair,  with  its  magnificent  Duomo,  its 
gallery  of  ancient  art,  its  gardens,  its  gay  so 
ciety,  and  its  delightful  environs,  —  Fiesole, 
Camaldoli,  Vallombrosa,  and  the  luxuriant 
Val  d'  Arno  ;  —  these  have  been  so  often  and 
so  beautifully  described  by  others,  that  I 
need  not  repeat  the  twice-told  tale. 


AT  Florence  I  took  lodgings  in  a  house  which 
looks  upon  the  Piazza  Novella.  In  front  of  my 
windows  was  the  venerable  church  of  Santa  Ma 
ria  Novella,  in  whose  gloomy  aisles  Boccaccio 
has  placed  the  opening  scene  of  his  Decame- 
rone.  There,  when  the  plague  was  raging  in 
the  city,  one  Tuesday  morning,  after  mass,  the 
"  seven  ladies,  young  and  fair,"  held  counsel 
together,  and  resolved  to  leave  the  infected 
city,  and  flee  to  their  rural  villas  in  the  envi 
rons,  where  they  might  "  hear  the  birds  sing, 
and  see  the  green  hills,  and  the  plains,  and  the 
fields  covered  with  grain  and  undulating  like 
the  sea,  and  trees  of  species  manifold." 

In  the  Florentine  museum  is  a  representa- 


The  Journey  into  Italy          305 

tion  in  wax  of  some  of  the  appalling  scenes  of 
the  plague  which  desolated  this  city  about  the 
middle  of  the  fourteenth  century,  and  which 
Boccaccio  has  described  with  such  simplicity 
and  power  in  the  introduction  of  his  Decame- 
rone.  It  is  the  work  of  a  Sicilian  artist,  by 
the  name  of  Zumbo.  He  must  have  been  a 
man  of  the  most  gloomy  and  saturnine  imagi 
nation,  and  more  akin  to  the  worm  than  most 
of  us,  thus  to  have  revelled  night  and  day  in 
the  hideous  mysteries  of  death,  corruption,  and 
the  charnel-house.  It  is  strange  how  this  rep 
resentation  haunts  one.  It  is  like  a  dream  of 
the  sepulchre,  with  its  loathsome  corses,  with 
"  the  blackening,  the  swelling,  the  bursting  of 
the  trunk,  —  the  worm,  the  rat,  and  the  taran 
tula  at  work."  You  breathe  more  freely  as 
you  step  out  into  the  open  air  again  ;  and 
when  the  bright  sunshine  and  the  crowded 
busy  streets  next  meet  your  eye,  you  are 
ready  to  ask,  Is  this  indeed  a  representation 
of  reality  ?  Can  this  pure  air  have  been  laden 
with  pestilence  ?  Can  this  gay  city  have  ever 
been  a  city  of  the  plague  ? 

The  work  of  the  Sicilian  artist  is  admirable 
as  a  piece  of  art ;  the  description  of  the  Flo 
rentine  prose-poet  equally  admirable  as  a  piece 


306          The  Journey  into  Italy 

of  eloquence.  "  How  many  vast  palaces,"  he 
exclaims,  "  how  many  beautiful  houses,  how 
many  noble  dwellings,  aforetime  filled  with 
lords  and  ladies  and  trains  of  servants,  were 
now  untenanted  even  by  the  lowest  menial ! 
How  many  memorable  families,  how  many 
ample  heritages,  how  many  renowned  posses 
sions,  were  left  without  an  heir  !  How  many 
valiant  men,  how  many  beautiful  women,  how 
many  gentle  youths,  breakfasted  in  the  morn 
ing  with  their  relatives,  companions,  and 
friends,  and,  when  the  evening  came,  supped 
with  their  ancestors  in  the  other  world  ! " 


I  MET  with  an  odd  character  at  Florence,  — 
a  complete  humorist.  He  was  an  Englishman 
of  some  forty  years  of  age,  with  a  round,  good- 
humored  countenance,  and  a  nose  that  wore 
the  livery  of  good  company.  He  was  making 
the  grand  tour  through  France  and  Italy,  and 
home  again  by  the  way  of  the  Tyrol  and  the 
Rhine.  He  travelled  post,  with  a  double-bar 
relled  gun,  two  pairs  of  pistols,  and  a  vio 
lin  without  a  bow.  He  had  been  in  Rome 
without  seeing  St.  Peter's,  —  he  did  not  care 
about  it ;  he  had  seen  St.  Paul's  in  London. 


The  Journey  into  Italy          307 

He  had  been  in  Naples  without  visiting  Pom 
peii,  because  "  they  told  him  it  was  hardly 
worth  seeing,  —  nothing  but  a  parcel  of  dark 
streets  and  old  walls."  The  principal  object 
he  seemed  to  have  in  view  was  to  complete 
the  grand  tour. 

I  afterward  met  with  his  counterpart  in  a 
countryman  of  my  own,  who  made  it  a  point 
to  see  everything  which  was  mentioned  in 
the  guide-books  ;  and  boasted  how  much  he 
could  accomplish  in  a  day.  He  would  de 
spatch  a  city  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of 
time.  A  Roman  aqueduct,  a  Gothic  cathedral, 
two  or  three  modern  churches,  and  an  ancient 
ruin  or  so,  were  only  a  breakfast  for  him. 
Nothing  came  amiss  ;  not  a  stone  was  left  un 
turned.  A  city  was  like  a  Chinese  picture  to 
him, — it  had  no  perspective.  Every  object 
seemed  of  equal  magnitude  and  importance. 
He  saw  them  all ;  they  were  all  wonderful. 

"  Life  is  short,  and  art  is  long,"  says  Hippo 
crates  ;  yet  spare  me  from  thus  travelling  with 
the  speed  of  thought,  and  trotting,  from  day 
light  until  dark,  at  the  heels  of  a  cicerone,  with 
an  umbrella  in  one  hand,  and  a  guide-book 
and  plan  of  the  city  in  the  other. 


308          The  Journey  into  Italy 

I  COPIED  the  following  singular  inscription 
from  a  tombstone  in  the  Protestant  cemetery 
at  Leghorn.  It  is  the  epitaph  of  a  lady,  writ 
ten  by  herself,  and  engraven  upon  her  tomb  at 
her  own  request. 

"  Under  this  stone  lies  the  victim  of  sorrow. 
Fly,  wandering  stranger,  from  her  mouldering  dust, 
Lest  the  rude  wind,  conveying  a  particle  thereof  unto  the'e, 
Should  communicate  that  venom  melancholy 
That  has  destroyed  the  strongest  frame  and  liveliest  spirit. 
With  joy  of  heart  has  she  resigned  her  breath, 
A  living  martyr  to  sensibility  !  " 

How  inferior  in  true  pathos  is  this  inscription 
to  one  in  the  cemetery  of  Bologna  ;  — 

"  Lucrezia  Picini 
Implora  eterna  pace." 

Lucretia  Picini  implores  eternal  peace  ! 

From  Florence  to  Rome  I  travelled  with 
a  vetturino,  by  the  way  of  Siena.  We  were 
six  days  upon  the  road,  and,  like  Peter  Rugg 
in  the  story-book,  were  followed  constantly  by 
clouds  and  rain.  At  times,  the  sun,  not  all- 
forgetful  of  the  world,  peeped  from  beneath 
his  cowl  of  mist,  and  kissed  the  swarthy  face  of 
his  beloved  land ;  and  then,  like  an  anchorite, 
withdrew  again  from  earth,  and  gave  him 
self  to  heaven.  Day  after  day  the  mist  and 


The  Journey  into  Italy          309 

the  rain  were  my  fellow-travellers ;  and  as  I 
sat  wrapped  in  the  thick  folds  of  my  Spanish 
cloak,  and  looked  out  upon  the  misty  land 
scape  and  the  leaden  sky,  I  was  continually 
saying  to  myself,  "  Can  this  be  Italy  ?  "  and 
smiling  at  the  untravelled  credulity  of  those 
who,  amid  the  storms  of  a  northern  winter, 
give  way  to  the  illusions  of  fancy,  and  dream 
of  Italy  as  a  sunny  land,  where  no  wintry  tem 
pest  beats,  and  where,  even  in  January,  the  pale 
invalid  may  go  about  without  his  umbrella,  or 
his  India-rubber  walk-in-the-waters. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  with  the  help  of 
a  good  constitution  and  a  thick  pair  of  boots, 
I  contrived  to  see  all  that  was  to  be  seen  upon 
the  road.  I  walked  down  the  long  hillside  at 
San  Lorenzo,  and  along  the  border  of  the 
Lake  of  Bolsena,  which,  veiled  in  the  driving 
mist,  stretched  like  an  inland  sea  beyond  my 
ken  ;  and  through  the  sacred  forest  of  oak, 
held  in  superstitious  reverence  by  the  peasant, 
and  inviolate  from  his  axe.  I  passed  a  night 
at  Montefiascone,  renowned  for  a  delicate  Mus 
cat  wine,  which  bears  the  name  of  Est,  and 
made  a  midnight  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of 
the  Bishop  John  Defoucris,  who  died  a  martyr 
to  his  love  of  this  wine  of  Montefiascone. 


310          The  Journey  into  Italy 

"Propter  nimium  Est,  Est,  Est, 
Dominus  meus  mortuus  est." 

A  marble  slab  in  the  pavement,  worn  by  the 
footsteps  of  pilgrims  like  myself,  covers  the 
dominie's  ashes.  There  is  a  rude  figure  carved 
upon  it,  at  whose  feet  I  traced  out  the  cabalis 
tic  words,  "Est,  Est,  Est."  The  remainder  of 
the  inscription  was  illegible  by  the  flickering 
light  of  the  sexton's  lantern. 

At  Baccano  I  first  caught  sight  of  the  dome 
of  Saint  Peter's.  We  had  entered  the  deso 
late  Campagna  ;  we  passed  the  tomb  of  Nero, 
—  we  approached  the  Eternal  City ;  but  no 
sound  of  active  life,  no  thronging  crowds,  no 
hum  of  busy  men,  announced  that  we  were 
near  the  gates  of  Rome.  All  was  silence,  soli 
tude,  and  desolation. 


ROME   IN   MIDSUMMER 


She  who  tamed  the  world  seemed  to  tame  herself  at  last,  and,  falling 
under  her  own  weight,  grew  to  be  a  prey  to  Time,  who  with  his  iron  teeth 
consumes  all  bodies  at  last,  making  all  things,  both  animate  and  inanimate, 
which  have  their  being  under  that  changeling,  the  moon,  to  be  subject 
unto  corruption  and  desolation. 

HOWELL'S  SIGNORIE  OF  VENICE. 


r  I  "*HE  masks  and  mummeries  of  Carnival 
•*-  are  over ;  the  imposing  ceremonies  of 
Holy  Week  have  become  a  tale  of  the  times  of 
old  ;  the  illumination  of  St.  Peter's  and  the 
Girandola  are  no  longer  the  theme  of  gentle 
and  simple  ;  and  finally,  the  barbarians  of  the 
North  have  retreated  from  the  gates  of  Rome, 
and  left  the  Eternal  City  silent  and  deserted. 
The  cicerone  stands  at  the  corner  of  the 
street  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  ;  the  artist 
has  shut  himself  up  in  his  studio  to  muse  upon 
antiquity ;  and  the  idle  facchino  lounges  in 
the  market-place,  and  plays  at  mom  by  the 
fountain.  Midsummer  has  come ;  and  you 
may  now  hire  a  palace  for  what,  a  few  weeks 
ago,  would  hardly  have  paid  your  night's  lodg 
ing  in  its  garret. 


312  Rome  in  Midsummer 

I  am  still  lingering  in  Rome,  —  a  student, 
not  an  artist,  —  and  have  taken  lodgings  in  the 
Piazza  Navona,  the  very  heart  of  the  city,  and 
one  of  the  largest  and  most  magnificent 
squares  of  modern  Rome.  It  occupies  the  site 
of  the  ancient  amphitheatre  of  Alexander  Sev- 
erus ;  and  the  churches,  palaces,  and  shops 
that  now  surround  it  are  built  upon  the  old 
foundations  of  the  amphitheatre.  At  each 
extremity  of  the  square  stands  a  fountain  ;  the 
one  with  a  simple  jet  of  crystal  water,  the  oth 
er  with  a  triton  holding  a  dolphin  by  the  tail. 
In  the  centre  rises  a  nobler  work  of  art;  a 
fountain  with  a  marble  basin  more  than  two 
hundred  feet  in  circumference.  From  the 
midst  uprises  a  huge  rock  pierced  with  grot 
toes,  wherein  sit  a  rampant  sea-horse,  and  a 
lion  couchant.  On  the  sides  of  the  rock  are 
four  colossal  statues,  representing  the  four 
principal  rivers  of  the  world  ;  and  from  its 
summit,  forty  feet  from  the  basin  below,  shoots 
up  an  obelisk  of  red  granite,  covered  with  hie 
roglyphics,  and  fifty  feet  in  height,  —  a  relic  of 
the  amphitheatre  of  Caracalla. 

In  this  quarter  of  the  city  I  have  domicili- 
ated  myself,  in  a  family  of  whose  many  kind 
nesses  I  shall  always  retain  the  most  lively 


Rome  in  Midsummer  313 

and  grateful  remembrance.  My  mornings  are 
spent  in  visiting  the  wonders  of  Rome,  in 
studying  the  miracles  of  ancient  and  modern 
art,  or  in  reading  at  the  public  libraries.  We 
breakfast  at  noon,  and  dine  at  eight  in  the 
evening.  After  dinner  comes  the  conversa 
zione,  enlivened  with  music,  and  the  meeting 
of  travellers,  artists,  and  literary  men  from 
every  quarter  of  the  globe.  At  midnight, 
when  the  crowd  is  gone,  I  retire  to  my  cham 
ber,  and,  poring  over  the  gloomy  pages  of 
Dante,  or  "Bandello's  laughing  tale,"  protract 
my  nightly  vigil  till  the  morning  star  is  in  the 
sky. 

Our  windows  look  out  upon  the  square, 
which  circumstance  is  a  source  of  infinite  en 
joyment  to  me.  Directly  in  front,  with  its  fan 
tastic  belfries  and  swelling  dome,  rises  the 
church  of  St.  Agnes  ;  and  sitting  by  the  open 
window,  I  note  the  busy  scene  below,  enjoy 
the  cool  air  of  morning  and  evening,  and  even 
feel  the  freshness  of  the  fountain,  as  its  waters 
leap  in  mimic  cascades  down  the  sides  of  the 
rock. 


THE   Piazza   Navona   is   the  chief  market 
place  of  Rome  ;  and  on  market-days  is  filled 
14 


314  Rome  in  Midsummer 

with  a  noisy  crowd  of  the  Roman  populace, 
and  the  peasantry  from  the  neighboring  vil 
lages  of  Albano  and  Frascati.  At  such  times 
the  square  presents  an  animated  and  curious 
scene.  The  gayly-decked  stalls,  —  the  piles  of 
fruits  and  vegetables,  —  the  pyramids  of  flow 
ers, —  the  various  costumes  of  the  peasantry, 
—  the  constant  movement  of  the  vast,  fluctuat 
ing  crowd,  and  the  deafening  clamor  of  their 
discordant  voices,  that  rise  louder  than  the 
roar  of  the  loud  ocean,  —  all  this  is  better 
than  a  play  to  me,  and  gives  me  amusement 
when  naught  else  has  power  to  amuse. 

Every  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  sultry 
month  ,jf  August,  this  spacious  square  is  con 
verted  into  a  lake,  by  stopping  the  conduit- 
pipes  which  carry  off  the  water  of  the  foun 
tains.  Vehicles  of  every  description,  axle- 
deep,  drive  to  and  fro  across  the  mimic  lake  ; 
a  dense  crowd  gathers  around  its  margin,  and 
a  thousand  tricks  excite  the  loud  laughter  of 
the  idle  populace.  Here  is  a  fellow  groping 
with  a  stick  after  his  seafaring  hat ;  there  an 
other  splasKing  in  the  water  in  pursuit  of  a 
mischievous  spaniel,  who  is  swimming  away 
with  his  shoe  ;  while  from  a  neighboring  bal 
cony  a  noisy  burst  of  military  music  fills  the 


Rome  in  Midsummer  315 

air,  and  gives  fresh  animation  to  the  scene  of 
mirth.  This  is  one  of  the  popular  festivals  of 
midsummer  in  Rome,  and  the  merriest  of  them 
all.  It  is  a  kind  of  carnival  unmasked  ;  and 
many  a  popular  bard,  many  a  Poeta  di  dozzina, 
invokes  this  day  the  plebeian  Muse  of  the  mar 
ket-place  to  sing  in  high-sounding  rhyme,  "// 
Lago  di  Piazza  Navona" 

I  have  before  me  one  of  these  sublime  effu 
sions.  It  describes  the  square,  —  the  crowd, 
—  the  rattling  carriages,  —  the  lake,  —  the 
fountain,  raised  by  "  the  superhuman  genius  of 
Bernini,"  —  the  lion, — the  sea-horse,  and  the 
triton  grasping  the  dolphin's  tail.  "  Half  the 
grand  square,"  thus  sings  the  poet,  "where 
Rome  with  food  is  satiate,  was  changed  into  a 
lake,  around  whose  margin  stood  the  Roman 
people,  pleased  with  soft  idleness  and  merry 
holiday,  like  birds  upon  the  margin  of  a  limpid 
brook.  Up  and  down  drove  car  and  chariot ; 
and  the  women  trembled  for  fear  of  the  deep 
water ;  though  merry  were  the  young,  and 
well  I  ween,  had  they  been  borne  away  to 
unknown  shores  by  the  bull  that  bore  away 
Europa,  they  would  neither  have  wept  nor 
screamed ! " 


316  Rome  in  Midsummer 

ON  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Janiculum,  now 
called,  from  its  yellow  sands,  Montorio,  or  the 
Golden  Mountain,  stands  the  fountain  of  Ac- 
qua  Paola,  the  largest  and  most  abundant  of 
the  Roman  fountains.  It  is  a  small  Ionic 
temple,  with  six  columns  of  reddish  granite  in 
front,  a  spacious  hall  and  chambers  within, 
and  a  garden  with  a  terrace  in  the  rear.  Be 
neath  the  pavement,  a  torrent  of  water  from 
the  ancient  aqueducts  of  Trajan,  and  from  the 
lakes  of  Bracciano  and  Martignano,  leaps  forth 
in  three  beautiful  cascades,  and  from  the  over 
flowing  basin  rushes  down  the  hillside  to  turn 
the  busy  wheels  of  a  dozen  mills. 

The  key  of  this  little  fairy  palace  is  in  our 
hands,  and  as  often  as  once  a  week  we  pass 
the  day  there,  amid  the  odor  of  its  flowers,  the 
rushing  sound  of  its  waters,  and  the  enchant 
ments  of  poetry  and  music.  How  pleasantly 
the  sultry  hours  steal  by!  Cool  comes  the 
summer  wind  from  the  Tiber's  mouth  at  Ostia. 
Above  us  is  a  sky  without  a  cloud  ;  beneath 
us  the  magnificent  panorama  of  Rome  and  the 
Campagna,  bounded  by  the  Abruzzi  and  the 
sea.  Glorious  scene !  one  glance  at  thee 
would  move  the  dullest  soul,  —  one  glance  can 
melt  the  painter  and  the  poet  into  tears ! 


Rome  in  Midsummer  317 

In  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  foun 
tain  are  many  objects  worthy  of  the  stranger's 
notice.  A  bowshot  down  the  hillside  towards 
the  city  stands  the  convent  of  San  Pietro  in 
Montorio  ;  and  in  the  cloister  of  this  convent 
is  a  small,  round  Doric  temple,  built  upon  the 
spot  which  an  ancient  tradition  points  out  as 
the  scene  of  St.  Peter's  martyrdom.  In  the 
opposite  direction  the  road  leads  you  over  the 
shoulder  of  the  hill,  and  out  through  the  city- 
gate  to  gardens  and  villas  beyond.  Passing 
beneath  a  lofty  arch  of  Trajan's  aqueduct,  an 
ornamented  gateway  on  the  left  admits  you  to 
the  Villa  Pamfili-Doria,  built  on  the  western 
declivity  of  the  hill.  This  is  the  largest  and 
most  magnificent  of  the  numerous  villas  that 
crowd  the  immediate  environs  of  Rome.  Its 
spacious  terraces,  its  marble  statues,  its  wood 
lands  and  green  alleys,  its  lake  and  waterfalls 
and  fountains,  give  it  an  air  of  courtly  splendor 
and  of  rural  beauty,  which  realizes  the  beau 
ideal  of  a  suburban  villa. 

This  is  our  favorite  resort,  when  we  have 
passed  the  day  at  the  fountain,  and  the  after 
noon  shadows  begin  to  fall.  There  we  sit  on 
the  broad  marble  steps  of  the  terrace,  gaze 
upon  the  varied  landscape  stretching  to  the 


318  Rome  in  Midsummer 

misty  sea,  or  ramble  beneath  the  leafy  dome 
of  the  woodland  and  along  the  margin  of  the 
lake, 

"  And  drop  a  pebble  to  see  it  sink 
Down  in  those  depths  so  calm  and  cool." 

O,  did  we  but  know  when  we  are  happy ! 
Could  the  restless,  feverish,  ambitious  heart  be 
still,  but  for  a  moment  still,  and  yield  itself, 
without  one  farther-aspiring  throb,  to  its  en 
joyment, —  then  were  I  happy,  —  yes,  thrice 
happy  !  But  no  ;  this  fluttering,  struggling, 
and  imprisoned  spirit  beats  the  bars  of  its 
golden  cage,  —  disdains  the  silken  fetter ;  it 
will  not  close  its  eye  and  fold  its  wings  ;  as  if 
time  were  not  swift  enough,  its  swifter  thoughts 
outstrip  his  rapid  flight,  and  onward,  onward 
do  they  wing  their  way  to  the  distant  moun 
tains,  to  the  fleeting  clouds  of  the  future ;  and 
yet  I  know,  that  ere  long,  weary,  and  wayworn, 
and  disappointed,  they  shall  return  to  nestle 
in  the  bosom  of  the  past ! 

This  day,  also,  I  have  passed  at  Acqua  Pa- 
ola.  From  the  garden  terrace  I  watched  the 
setting  sun,  as,  wrapt  in  golden  vapor,  he 
passed  to  other  climes.  A  friend  from  my 
native  land  was  with  me  ;  and  as  we  spake  ol 
home,  a  liquid  star  stood  trembling  like  a  tear 


Rome  in  Midsummer  319 

upon  the  closing  eyelid  of  the  day.  Which  of 
us  wrote  these  lines  with  a  pencil  upon  the 
cover  of  Julia's  Corinna  ? 

Bright  star  !  whose  soft,  familiar  ray, 

In  colder  climes  and  gloomier  skies, 
I  've  watched  so  oft  when  closing  day 

Had  tinged  the  west  with  crimson  dyes ; 
Perhaps  to-night  some  friend  I  love, 

Beyond  the  deep,  the  distant  sea, 
Will  gaze  upon  thy  path  above, 

And  give  one  lingering  thought  to  me. 


TORQUATI  TASSO  OSSA  HIC  jACENT,  —  Here 
lie  the  bones  of  Torquato  Tasso,  —  is  the  sim 
ple  inscription  upon  the  poet's  tomb,  in  the 
church  of  St.  Onofrio.  Many  a  pilgrimage  is 
made  to  this  grave.  Many  a  bard  from  distant 
lands  comes  to  visit  the  spot,  —  and,  as  he 
paces  the  secluded  cloisters  of  the  convent 
where  the  poet  died,  and  where  his  ashes  rest, 
muses  on  the  sad  vicissitudes  of  his  life,  and 
breathes  a  prayer  for  the  peace  of  his  soul. 
He  sleeps  midway  between  his  cradle  at  Sor 
rento  and  his  dungeon  at  Ferrara. 

The  monastery  of  St.  Onofrio  stands  on  the 
Janiculum,  overlooking  the  Tiber  and  the  city 
of  Rome  ;  and  in  the  distance  rise  the  towers 


320  Rome  in  Midsummer 

of  the  Roman  Capitol,  where,  after  long  years 
of  sickness,  sorrow,  and  imprisonment,  the  lau 
rel  crown  was  prepared  for  the  great  epic  poet 
of  Italy.  The  chamber  in  which  Tasso  died  is 
still  shown  to  the  curious  traveller  ;  and  the 
tree  in  the  garden,  under  whose  shade  he 
loved  to  sit.  The  feelings  of  the  dying  man, 
as  he  reposed  in  this  retirement,  are  not  the 
vague  conjectures  of  poetic  revery.  He  has 
himself  recorded  them  in  a  letter  which  he 
wrote  to  his  friend  Antonio  Constantini,  a  few 
days  only  before  his  dissolution.  These  are 
his  melancholy  words  :  — 

. "  What  will  my  friend  Antonio  say,  when  he 
hears  the  death  of  Tasso  ?  Erelong,  I  think, 
the  news  will  reach  him  ;  for  I  feel  that  the 
end  of  my  life  is  near  ;  being  able  to  find  no 
remedy  for  this  wearisome  indisposition  which 
is  superadded  to  my  customary  infirmities,  and 
by  which,  as  by  a  rapid  torrent,  I  see  myself 
swept  away,  without  a  hand  to  save.  It  is  no 
longer  time  to  speak  of  my  unyielding  destiny, 
not  to  say  the  ingratitude  of  the  world,  which 
has  longed  even  for  the  victory  of  driving  me 
a  beggar  to  my  grave  ;  while  I  thought  that 
the  glory  which,  in  spite  of  those  who  will  it 
not,  this  age  shall  receive  from  my  writings 


Rome  in  Midsummer  321 

was  not  to  leave  me  thus  without  reward.  I 
have  come  to  this  monastery  of  St.  Onofrio, 
not  only  because  the  air  is  commended  by 
physicians  as  more  salubrious  than  in  any  oth 
er  part  of  Rome,  but  that  I  may,  as  it  were, 
commence,  in  this  high  place,  and  in  the  con 
versation  of  these  devout  fathers,  my  conversa 
tion  in  heaven.  Pray  God  for  me  ;  and  be  as 
sured  that  as  I  have  loved  and  honored  you  in 
this  present  life,  so  in  that  other  and  more  real 
life  will  I  do  for  you  all  that  belongs  to  charity 
unfeigned  and  true.  And  to  the  divine  mercy 
I  commend  both  you  and  myself." 


THE  modern  Romans  are  a  very  devout 
people.  The  Princess  Doria  washes  the  pil 
grims'  feet  in  Holy  Week  ;  every  evening,  foul 
or  fair,  the  whole  year  round,  there  is  a  rosary 
sung  before  an  image  of  the  Virgin,  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  my  window  ;  and  the  young 
ladies  write  letters  to  St.  Louis  Gonzaga,  who 
in  all  paintings  and  sculpture  is  represented  as 
young  and  angelically  beautiful.  I  saw  a  large 
pile  of  these  letters  a  few  weeks  ago  in  Gon- 
zaga's  chapel,  at  the  church  of  St.  Ignatius. 
They  were  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  pret- 
14*  u 


322  Rome  in  Midsummer 

tily  written  on  smooth  paper,  and  tied  with 
silken  ribands  of  various  colors.  Leaning 
over  the  marble  balustrade,  I  read  the  follow 
ing  superscription  upon  one  of  them  :  —  "  Air 
Angelica  Giovane  S.  Ltdgi  Gonzaga,  Paradiso, 
—  To  the  angelic  youth  St.  Louis  Gonza- 
ga,  Paradise."  A  soldier,  with  a  musket,  kept 
guard  over  this  treasure  ;  and  I  had  the  audaci 
ty  to  ask  him  at  what  hour  the  mail  went  out  ; 
for  which  heretical  impertinence  he  cocked  his 
mustache  at  me  with  the  most  savage  look  im 
aginable,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Get  thee 
gone "  :  — 

"  Andate, 
Niente  pigliate, 
E  mai  ritornate. " 

The  modern  Romans  are  likewise  strongly 
given  to  amusements  of  every  description. 
Panem  et  circenses,  says  the  Latin  satirist, 
when  chiding  the  degraded  propensities  of  his 
countrymen  ;  Pancm  et  circenses,  —  they  are 
content  with  bread  and  the  sports  of  the  cir 
cus.  The  same  may  be  said  at  the  present 
day.  Even  in  this  hot  weather,  when  the 
shops  are  shut  at  noon,  and  the  fat  priests 
waddle  about  the  streets  with  fans  in  their 
hands,  the  people  crowd  to  the  Mausoleum  of 


Rome  in  Midsummer  323 

Augustus,  to  be  choked  with  the  smoke  of 
fireworks,  and  see  deformed  and  humpback 
dwarfs  tumbled  into  the  dirt  by  the  masked 
horns  of  young  bullocks.  What  a  refined 
amusement  for  the  inhabitants  of  "pompous 
and  holy  Rome  !  " 


THE  Sirocco  prevails  to-day,  —  a  hot  wind 
from  the  burning  sands  of  Africa,  that  bathes 
its  wings  in  the  sea,  and  comes  laden  with  fogs 
and  vapors  to  the  shores  of  Italy.  It  is  op 
pressive  and  dispiriting,  and  quite  unmans  one, 
like  the  dog-days  of  the  North.  There  is  a 
scrap  of  an  old  English  song  running  in  my 
mind,  in  which  the  poet  calls  it  a  cool  wind  ; 
though  ten  to  one  I  misquote. 

"  When  the  cool  Sirocco  blows, 
And  daws  and  pies  and  rooks  and  crows 
Sit  and  curse  the  wintiy  snows, 
Then  give  me  ale  ! " 

I  should  think  that  stark  English  beer 
might  have  a  potent  charm  against  the  pow 
ers  of  the  foul  fiend  that  rides  this  steaming, 
reeking  wind.  A  flask  of  Montefiascone,  or  a 
bottle  of  Lacrima  Christi  does  very  well. 


324  Rome  in  Mihsummer 

BEGGARS  all,  —  beggars  all !  The  Papal  city 
is  full  of  them ;  and  they  hold  you  by  the  but 
ton  through  the  whole  calendar  of  saints. 
You  cannot  choose  but  hear.  I  met  an  old 
woman  yesterday,  who  pierced  my  ear  with 
this  alluring  petition  :  — 

"  Ak  signore  !  Qualche  piccola  cosa,  per  ca- 
rita  !  Vi  dirb  la  buona  ventura  !  C'  £  una  bella 
signorina,  che  vi  ama  molto  !  Per  il  Sacro  Sa 
cramento  !  Per  la  Madonna  !  " 

Which  being  interpreted,  is,  "  Ah,  Sir,  a  tri 
fle,  for  charity's  sake  !  I  will  tell  your  fortune 
for  you  !  There  is  a  beautiful  young  lady  who 
loves  you  well!  For  the  Holy  Sacrament, — 
for  the  Madonna's  sake  ! " 

Who  could  resist  such  an  appeal  ? 

I  made  a  laughable  mistake  this  morning  in 
giving  alms.  A  man  stood  on  the  shady  side 
of  the  street  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  as  I 
passed  he  gave  me  a  piteous  look,  though  he 
said  nothing.  He  had  such  a  woe-begone  face, 
and  such  a  threadbare  coat,  that  I  at  once  took 
him  for  one  of  those  mendicants  who  bear  the 
title  of  poveri  vergognosi,  —  bashful  beggars  ; 
persons  whom  pinching  want  compels  to  re 
ceive  the  stranger's  charity,  though  pride  re 
strains  them  from  asking  it.  Moved  with  com- 


Rome  in  Midsummer  325 

passion,  I  threw  into  the  hat  the  little  I  had  to 
give  ;  when,  instead  of  thanking  me  with  a 
blessing,  my  man  with  the  threadbare  coat 
showered  upon  me  the  most  sonorous  maledic 
tions  of  his  native  tongue,  and,  emptying  his 
greasy  hat  upon  the  pavement,  drew  it  down 
over  his  ears  with  both  hands,  and  stalked 
away  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  Roman  senator 
in  the  best  days  of  the  republic,  —  to  the  infi 
nite  amusement  of  a  green-grocer,  who  stood 
at  his  shop-door  bursting  with  laughter.  No 
time  was  given  me  for  an  apology ;  but  I  re 
solved  to  be  for  the  future  more  discriminating 
in  my  charities,  and  not  to  take  for  a  beggar 
every  poor  gentleman  who  chose  to  stand  in 
the  shade  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  on  a  hot 
summer's  day. 


THERE  is  an  old  fellow  who  hawks  pious  le^ 
gends  and  the  lives  of  saints  through  the 
streets  of  Rome,  with  a  sharp,  cracked  voice, 
that  knows  no  pause  nor  division  in  the  sen 
tences  it  utters.  I  just  heard  him  cry  at  a 
breath  :  — 

"La  Vita  di  San  Giuseppe  quel  fidel servitor 
di  Dio  santo  e  maraviglioso  mezzo  bajocco,  — 


326  Rome  in  Midsummer 

The  Life  of  St.  Joseph  that  faithful  servant  ot 
God  holy  and  wonderful  ha'penny  !  " 

This  is  the  way  with  some  people  ;  everything 
helter-skelter,  —  heads  and  tails,  —  prices  cur 
rent  and  the  lives  of  saints! 


IT  has  been  a  rainy  day,  —  a  day  of  gloom. 
The  church-bells  never  rang  in  my  ears  with 
so  melancholy  a  sound  ;  and  this  afternoon  I 
saw  a  mournful  scene,  which  still  haunts  my 
imagination.  It  was  the  funeral  of  a  monk. 
I  was  drawn  to  the  window  by  the  solemn 
chant,  as  the  procession  came  from  a  neighbor 
ing  street  and  crossed  the  square.  First  came 
a  long  train  of  priests,  clad  in  black,  and  bear 
ing  in  their  hands  large  waxen  tapers,  which 
flared  in  every  gust  of  wind,  and  were  now  and 
then  extinguished  by  the  rain.  The  bier  fol 
lowed,  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  four  bare 
footed  Carmelites  ;  and  upon  it,  ghastly  and 
grim,  lay  the  body  of  the  dead  monk,  clad  in 
his  long  gray  kirtle,  with  the  twisted  cord 
about  his  waist.  Not  even  a  shroud  was  thrown 
over  him.  His  head  and  feet  were  bare,  and 
his  hands  were  placed  upon  his  bosom,  palm 
to  palm,  ia  the  attitude  of  prayer.  His  face 


Rome  in  Midsummer  327 

was  emaciated,  and  of  a  livid  hue  ;  his  eyes 
unclosed ;  and  at  every  movement  of  the  bier, 
his  head  nodded  to  and  fro,  with  an  unearthly 
and  hideous  aspect.  Behind  walked  the  mo 
nastic  brotherhood,  a  long  and  melancholy  pro 
cession,  with  their  cowls  thrown  back,  and 
their  eyes  cast  upon  the  ground  ;  and  last  of 
all  came  a  man  with  a  rough,  unpainted  coffin 
upon  his  shoulders,  closing  the  funeral  train. 


MANY  of  the  priests,  monks,  monsignori, 
and  cardinals  of  Rome  have  a  bad  reputation, 
even  after  deducting  a  tithe  or  so  from  the 
tales  of  gossip.  To  some  of  them  may  be  ap 
plied  the  rhyming  Latin  distich,  written  for 
the  monks  of  old  :  — 

"  O  Monachi, 
Vestri  stomach! 
Sunt  amphora  Bacchi ; 
Vos  estis, 
Deus  est  testis, 
Turpissima  pestis." 

The  graphic  description  which  Thomson 
gives  in  his  "  Castle  of  Indolence  "  would  read 
ily  find  an  impersonation  among  the  Roman 
priesthood :  — 

"  Full  oft  by  holy  feet  our  ground  was  trod,  — 
Of  clerks  good  plenty  here  you  mote  espy  ;  — 


328  Rome  in  Midsummer 

A  little,  round,  fat,  oily  man  of  God 
Was  one  I  chiefly  marked  among  the  fry  ; 
He  had  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
Which  shone  all  glittering  with  ungodly  dew, 
When  a  tight  damsel  chanced  to  trippen  by  ; 
But  when  observed,  would  shrink  into  his  mew, 
And  straight  would  recollect  his  piety  anew." 


YONDER  across  the  square  goes  a  Minente  of 
Trastevere ;  a  fellow  who  boasts  the  blood  of 
the  old  Romans  in  his  veins.  He  is  a  plebe 
ian  exquisite  of  the  western  bank  of  the  Tiber, 
with  a  swarthy  face  and  the  step  of  an  em 
peror.  He  wears  a  slouched  hat,  and  blue 
velvet  jacket  and  breeches,  and  has  enormous 
silver  buckles  in  his  shoes.  As  he  marches 
along,  he  sings  a  ditty  in  his  own  vulgar  dia 
lect  :  — 

"Uno,  due,  e  tre, 
E  lo  Papa  non  e  Re." 

Now  he  stops  to  talk  with  a  woman  with  a  pan 
of  coals  in  her  hand.  What  violent  gestures  ! 
what  expressive  attitudes  !  Head,  hands,  and 
feet  are  all  in  motion,  —  not  a  muscle  is  still ! 
It  must  be  some  interesting  subject  that  ex 
cites  him  so  much,  and  gives  such  energy  to 
his  gestures  and  his  language.  No ;  he  only 
wants  to  light  his  pipe  ! 


Rome  in  Midsummer  329 

IT  is  now  past  midnight.  The  moon  is  full 
and  bright,  and  the  shadows  lie  so  dark  and 
massive  in  the  street  that  they  seem  a  part  of 
the  walls  that  cast  them.  I  have  just  returned 
from  the  Coliseum,  whose  ruins  are  so  marvel 
lously  beautiful  by  moonlight.  No  stranger  at 
Rome  omits  this  midnight  visit  ;  for  though 
there  is  something  unpleasant  in  having  one's 
admiration  forestalled,  and  being  as  it  were 
romantic  aforethought,  yet  the  charm  is  so 
powerful,  the  scene  so  surpassingly  beautiful 
and  sublime,  —  the  hour,  the  silence,  and  the 
colossal  ruin  have  such  a  mastery  over  the 
soul,  —  that  you  are  disarmed  when  most  up 
on  your  guard,  and  betrayed  into  an  enthu 
siasm  which  perhaps  you  had  silently  resolved 
you  would  not  feel. 

On  my  way  to  the  Coliseum,  I  crossed  the 
Capitoline  Hill,  and  descended  into  the  Roman 
Forum  by  the  broad  staircase  that  leads  to  the 
triumphal  arch  of  Septimius  Severus.  Close 
upon  my  right  hand  stood  the  three  remaining 
columns  of  the  Temple  of  the  Thunderer,  and 
the  beautiful  Ionic  portico  of  the  Temple 
of  Concord,  —  their  base  in  shadow,  and  the 
bright  moonbeam  striking  aslant  upon  the 
broken  entablature  above.  Before  me  rose 


330  Rome  in  Midsummer 

the  Phocian  Column,  —  an  isolated  shaft,  like 
a  thin  vapor  hanging  in  the  air  scarce  visible  ; 
and  far  to  the  left,  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of 
Antonio  and  Faustina,  and  the  three  colossal 
arches  of  the  Temple  of  Peace, — dim,  shadowy, 
indistinct,  —  seemed  to  melt  away  and  mingle 
with  the  sky.  I  crossed  the  Forum  to  the  foot 
of  the  Palatine,  and,  ascending  the  Via  Sacra, 
passed  beneath  the  Arch  of  Titus.  From  this 
point,  I  saw  below  me  the  gigantic  outline  of 
the  Coliseum,  like  a  cloud  resting  upon  the 
earth.  As  I  descended  the  hillside,  it  grew 
more  broad  and  high,  —  more  definite  in  its 
form,  and  yet  more  grand  in  its  dimensions,  — 
till,  from  the  vale  in  which  it  stands  encom 
passed  by  three  of  the  Seven  Hills  of  Rome, 

—  the  Palatine,  the  Ccelian,  and  the  Esquiline, 

—  the  majestic  ruin  in  all  its  solitary  grandeur 
"  swelled  vast  to  heaven." 

A  single  sentinel  was  pacing  to  and  fro  be 
neath  the  arched  gateway  which  leads  to  the 
interior,  and  his  measured  footsteps  were  the 
only  sound  that  broke  the  breathless  silence 
of  the  night.  What  a  contrast  with  the  scene 
which  that  same  midnight  hour  presented, 
when,  in  Domitian's  time,  the  eager  populace 
began  to  gather  at  the  gates,  impatient  for  the 


Rome  in  Midsummer  331 

morning  sports  !  Nor  was  the  contrast  within 
less  striking.  Silence,  and  the.  quiet  moon 
beams,  and  the  broad,  deep  shadows  of  the 
ruined  wall !  Where  were  the  senators  of 
Rome,  her  matrons,  and  her  virgins  ?  where 
the  ferocious  populace  that  rent  the  air  with 
shouts,  when,  in  the  hundred  holidays  that 
marked  the  dedication  of  this  imperial  slaugh 
ter-house,  five  thousand  wild  beasts  from  the 
Libyan  deserts  and  the  forests  of  Anatolia 
made  the  arena  sick  with  blood  ?  Where 
were  the  Christian  martyrs,  that  died  with 
prayers  upon  their  lips,  amid  the  jeers  and 
imprecations  of  their  fellow-men  ?  where  the 
barbarian  gladiators,  brought  forth  to  the  fes 
tival  of  blood,  and  "butchered  to  make  a  Ro 
man  holiday  "  ?  The  awful  silence  answered, 
"  They  are  mine  ! "  The  dust  beneath  me 
answered,  "  They  are  mine  !  " 

I  crossed  to  the  opposite  extremity  of  the 
amphitheatre.  A  lamp  was  burning  in  the  lit 
tle  chapel,  which  has  been  formed  from  what 
was  once  a  den  for  the  wild  beasts  of  the  Ro 
man  festivals.  Upon  the  steps  sat  the  old 
beadsman,  the  only  tenant  of  the  Coliseum, 
who  guides  the  stranger  by  night  through  the 
long  galleries  of  this  vast  pile  of  ruins.  I  fol- 


332  Rome  in  Midsummer 

lowed  him  up  a  narrow  wooden  staircase,  and 
entered  one  of  the  long  and  majestic  corridors, 
which  in  ancient  times  ran  entirely  round  the 
amphitheatre.  Huge  columns  of  solid  mason- 
work,  that  seem  the  labor  of  Titans,  support 
the  flattened  arches  above ;  and  though  the 
iron  clamps  are  gone,  which  once  fastened  the 
hewn  stones  together,  yet  the  columns  stand 
majestic  and  unbroken,  amid  the  ruin  around 
them,  and  seem  to  defy  "the  iron  tooth  of 
time."  Through  the  arches  at  the  right,  I 
could  faintly  discern  the  ruins  of  the  baths  of 
Titus  on  the  Esquiline ;  and  from  the  left, 
through  every  chink  and  cranny  of  the  wall, 
poured  in  the  brilliant  light  of  the  full  moon, 
casting  gigantic  shadows  around  me,  and  dif 
fusing  a  soft,  silvery  twilight  through  the  long 
arcades.  At  length  I  came  to  an  open  space, 
where  the  arches  above  had  crumbled  away, 
leaving  the  pavement  an  unroofed  terrace  high 
in  air.  From  this  point,  I  could  see  the  whole 
interior  of  the  amphitheatre  spread  out  be 
neath  me,  with  such  a  soft  and  indefinite  out 
line  that  it  seemed  less  an  earthly  reality  than 
a  reflection  in  the  bosom  of  a  lake.  The 
figures  of  several  persons  below  were  just 
perceptible,  mingling  grotesquely  with  their 


Rome  in  Midsummer  333 

foreshortened  shadows.  The  sound  of  their 
voices  reached  me  in  a  whisper  ;  and  the  cross 
that  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  arena  looked 
like  a  dagger  thrust  into  the  sand.  I  did  not 
conjure  up  the  past,  for  the  past  had  already 
become  identified  with  the  present.  It  was 
before  me  in  one  of  its  visible  and  most  ma 
jestic  forms.  The  arbitrary  distinctions  of 
time,  years,  ages,  centuries  were  annihilated. 
I  was  a  citizen  of  Rome  !  This  was  the  am 
phitheatre  of  Flavius  Vespasian  ! 

Mighty  is  the  spirit  of  the  past,  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  Eternal  City  ! 


THE  VILLAGE   OF   LA   RICCIA 

Egressum  magnl  me  excepit  Aricia  Romft, 
Hospitio  modico. 

HORACE. 

I  PASSED  the  month  of  September  at  the 
village  of  La  Riccia,  which  stands  upon 
the  western  declivity  of  the  Albanian  hills, 
looking  towards  Rome.  Its  situation  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  which  Italy  can  boast. 
Like  a  mural  crown,  it  encircles  the  brow  of 
a  romantic  hill ;  woodlands  of  the  most  luxu 
riant  foliage  whisper  around  it ;  above  rise  the 
rugged  summits  of  the  Abruzzi,  and  beneath 
lies  the  level  floor  of  the  Campagna,  blotted 
with  ruined  tombs,  and  marked  with  broken 
but  magnificent  aqueducts  that  point  the  way 
to  Rome.  The  whole  region  is  classic  ground. 
The  Appian  Way  leads  you  from  the  gate  of 
Rome  to  the  gate  of  La  Riccia.  On  one  hand 
you  have  the  Alban  Lake,  on  the  other  the 
Lake  of  Nemi ;  and  the  sylvan  retreats  around 
were  once  the  dwellings  of  Hippolytus  and  the 
nymph  Egeria. 


The   Village  of  La  Riccia        335 

The  town  itself,  however,  is  mean  and  dirty. 
The  only  inhabitable  part  is  near  the  northern 
gate,  where  the  two  streets  of  the  village  meet. 
There,  face  to  face,  upon  a  square  terrace, 
paved  with  large,  flat  stones,  stand  the  Chigi 
palace  and  the  village  church  with  a  dome  and 
portico.  There,  too,  stands  the  village  inn,  with 
its  beds  of  cool,  elastic  maize-husks,  its  little 
dormitories,  six  feet  square,  and  its  spacious 
saloon,  upon  whose  walls  the  melancholy  story 
of  Hippolytus  is  told  in  gorgeous  frescoes. 
And  there,  too,  at  the  union  of  the  streets, 
just  peeping  through  the  gateway,  rises  the 
wedge-shaped  Casa  Antonini,  within  whose 
dusty  chambers  I  passed  the  month  of  my 
villeggiatura,  in  company  with  two  much- 
esteemed  friends  from  the  Old  Dominion, 
—  a  fair  daughter  of  that  generous  clime,  and 
her  husband,  an  artist,  an  enthusiast,  and  a 
man  of  "  infinite  jest." 

My  daily  occupations  in  this  delightful  spot 
were  such  as  an  idle  man  usually  whiles  away 
his  time  withal  in  such  a  rural  residence.  I 
read  Italian  poetry,  —  strolled  in  the  Chigi 
park,  —  rambled  about  the  wooded  environs  of 
the  village,  —  took  an  airing  on  a  jackass, — 
threw  stones  into  the  Alban  Lake,  —  and,  be- 


336       The   Village  of  La  Riccia 

ing  seized  at  intervals  with  the  artist-mania, 
that  came  upon  me  like  an  intermittent  fever, 
sketched  —  or  thought  I  did  —  the  trunk  of  a 
hollow  tree,  or  the  spire  of  a  distant  church, 
or  a  fountain  in  the  shade. 

At  such  seasons,  the  mind  is  "  tickled  with 
a  straw,"  and  magnifies  each  trivial  circum 
stance  into  an  event  of  some  importance.  I 
recollect  one  morning,  as  I  sat  at  breakfast  in 
the  village  coffee-house,  a  large  and  beautiful 
spaniel  came  into  the  room,  and  placing  his 
head  upon  my  knee  looked  up  into  my  face 
with  a  most  piteous  look,  poor  dog  !  as  much 
as  to  say  that  he  had  not  breakfasted.  I  gave 
him  a  morsel  of  bread,  which  he  swallowed 
without  so  much  as  moving  his  long  silken 
ears  ;  and  keeping  his  soft,  beautiful  eyes  still 
fixed  upon  mine,  he  thumped  upon  the  floor 
with  his  bushy  tail,  as  if  knocking  for  the 
waiter.  He  was  a  very  beautiful  animal,  and 
so  gentle  and  affectionate  in  his  manner,  that  I 
askeH  th^  waiter  who  his  owner  was. 

"  He  has  none  now,"  said  the  boy. 

"  What ! "  said  I,  "  so  fine  a  dog  without  a 
master  ? " 

"Ah,  Sir,  he  used  to  belong  to  Gasparoni, 
the  famous  robber  of  the  Abruzzi  mountains, 


The   Village  of  La  Riccia        337 

who  murdered  so  many  people,  and  was  caught 
at  last  and  sent  to  the  galleys  for  life.  There 's 
his  portrait  on  the  wall." 

It  hung  directly  in  front  of  me ;  a  coarse 
print,  representing  the  dark,  stern  counte 
nance  of  that  sinful  man,  a  face  that  wore  an 
expression  of  savage  ferocity  and  coarse  sen 
suality.  I  had  heard  his  story  told  in  the  vil 
lage  ;  the  accustomed  tale  of  outrage,  violence, 
and  murder.  And  is  it  possible,  thought  I, 
that  this  man  of  blood  could  have  chosen  so 
kind  and  gentle  a  companion  ?  What  a  re 
buke  must  he  have  met  in  those  large,  meek 
eyes,  when  he  patted  his  favorite  on  the 
head,  and  dappled  his  long  ears  with  blood ! 
Heaven  seems  in  mercy  to  have  ordained  that 
none  —  no,  not  even  the  most  depraved  — 
should  be  left  entirely  to  his  evil  nature,  with 
out  one  patient  monitor,  —  a  wife,  —  a  daugh 
ter,  —  a  fawning,  meek-eyed  dog,  whose  silent, 
supplicating  look  may  rebuke  the  man  of  sin  ! 
If  this  mute,  playful  creature,  that  licks  the 
stranger's  hand,  were  gifted  with  the  power  of 
articulate  speech,  how  many  a  tale  of  midnight 
storm,  and  mountain-pass,  and  lonely  glen, 
would  —  but  these  reflections  are  common" 
place  ! 

15  v 


338       The   Village  of  La  Riccia 

On  another  occasion,  I  saw  an  overladen 
ass  fall  on  the  steep  and  slippery  pavement  of 
the  street.  He  made  violent  but  useless  ef 
forts  to  get  upon  his  feet  again  ;  and  his  brutal 
driver  —  more  brutal  than  the  suffering  beast 
of  burden  —  beat  him  unmercifully  with  his 
heavy  whip.  Barbarian  !  is  it  not  enough  that 
you  have  laid  upon  your  uncomplaining  ser 
vant  a  burden  greater  than  he  can  bear  ? 
Must  you  scourge  this  unresisting  slave, 
because  his  strength  has  failed  him  in  your 
hard  service  ?  Does  not  that  imploring  look 
disarm  you  ?  Does  not  —  and  here  was  an 
other  theme  for  commonplace  reflection  ! 

Again.  A  little  band  of  pilgrims,  clad  in 
white,  with  staves,  and  scallop-shells,  and  san 
dal  shoon,  have  just  passed  through  the  village 
gate,  wending  their  toilsome  way  to  the  holy 
shrine  of  Loretto.  They  wind  along  the 
brow  of  the  hill  with  slow  and  solemn  pace, — 
just  as  they  ought  to  do,  to  agree  with  my  no 
tion  of  a  pilgrimage,  drawn  from  novels.  And 
now  they  disappear  behind  the  hill ;  and  hark  ! 
they  are  singing  a  mournful  hymn,  like  Chris 
tian  and  Hopeful  on  their  way  to  the  Delecta 
ble  Mountains.  How  strange  it  seems  to  me, 
that  I  should  ever  behold  a  scene  like  this !  a 


The   Village  of  La  Riccia       339 

pilgrimage    to    Loretto !     Here   was    another 
outline  for  the  imagination  to  fill  up. 

But  my  chief  delight  was  in  sauntering 
along  the  many  woodland  walks,  which  di 
verge  in  every  direction  from  the  gates  of  La 
Riccia.  One  of  these  plunges  down  the  steep 
declivity  of  the  hill,  and,  threading  its  way 
through  a  most  romantic  valley,  leads  to  the 
shapeless  tomb  of  the  Horatii  and  the  pleasant 
village  of  Albano.  Another  conducts  you  over 
swelling  uplands  and  through  wooded  hollows 
to  Genzano  and  the  sequestered  Lake  of  Nemi, 
which  lies  in  its  deep  crater,  like  the  waters  of 
a  well,  "all  coiled  into  itself  and  round,  as 
sleeps  the  snake."  A  third,  and  the  most 
beautiful  of  all,  runs  in  an  undulating  line 
along  the  crest  of  the  last  and  lowest  ridge  of 
the  Albanian  Hills,  and  leads  to  the  borders 
of  the  Alban  Lake.  In  parts  it  hides  itself  in 
thick-leaved  hollows,  in  parts  climbs  the  open 
hillside  and  overlooks  the  Campagna.  Then 
it  winds  along  the  brim  of  the  deep,  oval  basin 
of  the  lake,  to  the  village  of  Castel  Gandolfo, 
and  thence  onward  to  Marino,  Grotta-Ferrata, 
and  Frascati. 

That  part  of  the  road  which  looks  down  up 
on  the  lake  passes  through  a  magnificent  gal- 


340       The   Village  of  La  Riccia 

lery  of  thick  embowering  trees,  whose  dense 
and  luxuriant  foliage  completely  shuts  out  the 
noonday  sun,  forming 

"  A  greensward  wagon-way,  that,  like 
Cathedral  aisle,  completely  roofed  with  branches, 
Runs  through  the  gloomy  wood  from  top  to  bottojn, 
And  has  at  either  end  a  Gothic  door 
Wide  open." 

This  long  sylvan  arcade  is  called  the  Galle- 
ria-di-sopra,  to  distinguish  it  from  the  Galleria- 
di-sotto,  a  similar,  though  less  beautiful  avenue, 
leading  from  Castel  Gandolfo  to  Albano,  un 
der  the  brow  of  the  hill.  In  this  upper  gal 
lery,  and  almost  hidden  amid  its  old  and  leafy 
trees,  stands  a  Capuchin  convent,  with  a  little 
esplanade  in  front,  from  which  the  eye  enjoys 
a  beautiful  view  of  the  lake,  and  the  swelling 
hills  beyond.  It  is  a  lovely  spot,  —  so  lonely, 
cool,  and  still ;  and  was  my  favorite  and  most 
frequented  haunt. 

Another  pathway  conducts  you  round  the 
southern  shore  of  the  Alban  Lake,  and,  after 
passing  the  site  of  the  ancient  Alba  Longa, 
and  the  convent  of  Palazzuolo,  turns  off  to  the 
right  through  a  luxuriant  forest,  and  climbs 
the  rugged  precipice  of  Rocca  di  Papa.  Be 
hind  this  village  swells  the  rounded  peak  of 


The   Village  of  La  Riccia         34 1 

Monte  Cavo,  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  Al 
banian  Hills,  rising  three  thousand  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea.  Upon  its  summit  once 
stood  a  temple  of  Jupiter,  and  the  Triumphal 
Way,  by  which  the  Roman  conquerors  ascend 
ed  once  a  year  in  solemn  procession  to  offer 
sacrifices,  still  leads  you  up  the  side  of  the  hill. 
But  a  convent  has  been  built  upon  the  ruins 
of  the  ancient  temple,  and  the  disciples  of  Loy 
ola  are  now  the  only  conquerors  that  tread  the 
pavement  of  the  Triumphal  Way. 

The  view  from  the  windows  of  the  convent 
is  vast  and  magnificent.  Directly  beneath 
you,  the  sight  plunges  headlong  into  a  gulf  of 
dark-green  foliage,  —  the  Alban  Lake  seems 
so  near,  that  you  can  almost  drop  a  pebble 
into  it,  —  and  Nemi,  imbosomed  in  a  green 
and  cup-like  valley,  lies  like  a  dew-drop  in  the 
hollow  of  a  leaf.  All  around  you,  upon  every 
swell  of  the  landscape,  the  white  walls  of  rural 
towns  and  villages  peep  from  their  leafy  cov 
erts, —  Genzano,  La  Riccia,  Castel  Gandolfo 
and  Albano  ;  and  beyond  spreads  the  flat  and 
desolate  Campagna,  with  Rome  in  its  centre 
and  seamed  by  the  silver  thread  of  the  Tiber, 
that  at  Ostia,  "  with  a  pleasant  stream,  whirl 
ing  in  rapid  eddies,  and  yellow  with  much 


34 2        The   Village  of  La  Riccia 

sand,  rushes  forward  into  the  sea."  The  scene 
of  half  the  yEneid  is  spread  beneath  you  like  a 
map  ;  and  it  would  need  volumes  to  describe 
each  point  that  arrests  the  eye  in  this  magnifi 
cent  panorama. 

As  I  stood  leaning  over  the  balcony  of  the 
convent,  giving  myself  up  to  those  reflections 
which  the  scene  inspired,  one  of  the  brother 
hood  came  from  a  neighboring  cell,  and  en 
tered  into  conversation  with  me.  He  was  an 
old  man,  with  a  hoary  head  and  a  trembling 
hand  ;  yet  his  voice  was  musical  and  soft,  and 
his  eye  still  beamed  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
youth. 

"  How  wonderful,"  said  he,  "  is  the  scene  be 
fore  us !  I  have  been  an  inmate  of  these  walls 
for  thirty  years,  and  yet  this  prospect  is  as 
beautiful  to  my  eye  as  when  I  gazed  upon  it 
for  the  first  time.  Not  a  day  passes  that  I  do 
not  come  to  this  window  to  behold  and  to  ad 
mire.  My  heart  is  still  alive  to  the  beauties  of 
the  scene,  and  to  all  the  classic  associations  it 
inspires." 

"You  have  never,  then,  been  whipped  by  an 
angel  for  reading  Cicero  and  Plautus,  as  St. 
Jerome  was  ? " 

"  No,"  said  the  monk,  with  a  smile.     "  From 


The   Village  of  La  Riccia         343 

my  youth  up  I  have  been  a  disciple  of  Chry- 
sostom,  who  often  slept  with  the  comedies  of 
Aristophanes  beneath  his  pillow ;  and  yet  I 
confess  that  the  classic  associations  of  Roman 
history  and  fable  are  not  the  most  thrilling 
which  this  scene  awakens  in  my  mind.  Yon 
der  is  the  bridge  from  which  Constantine  be 
held  the  miraculous  cross  of  fire  in  the  sky  ; 
and  I  can  never  forget  that  this  convent  is 
built  upon  the  ruins  of  a  pagan  temple.  The 
town  of  Ostia,  which  lies  before  us  on  the  sea 
shore,  is  renowned  as  the  spot  where  the  Tro 
jan  fugitive  first  landed  on  the  coast  of  Italy. 
But  other  associations  than  this  have  made  the 
spot  holy  in  my  sight.  Marcus  Minutius  Fe 
lix,  a  Roman  lawyer,  who  flourished  in  the 
third  century,  a  convert  to  our  blessed  faith, 
and  one  of  the  purest  writers  of  the  Latin 
Church,  here  places  the  scene  of  his  '  Octa- 
vius.'  This  work  has  probably  never  fallen 
into  your  hands;  for  you  are  too  young  to 
have  pushed  your  studies  into  the  dusty  tomes 
of  the  early  Christian  fathers." 

I  replied  that  I  had  never  so  much  as  heard 
the  book  mentioned  before ;  and  the  monk 
continued :  — 

"It  is  a  dialogue  upon  the  vanity  of  pagan 


344       The   Vintage  of  La  Riccia 

idolatry  and  the  truth  of  the  Christian  religion, 
between  Caecilius,  a  heathen,  and  Octavius,  a 
Christian.  The  style  is  rich,  flowing,  and  po 
etical  ;  and  if  the  author  handles  his  weapons 
with  less  power  than  a  Tertullian,  yet  he  ex 
hibits  equal  adroitness  and  more  grace.  He 
has  rather  the  studied  elegance  of  the  Roman 
lawyer,  than  the  bold  spirit  of  a  Christian 
martyr.  But  the  volume  is  a  treasure  to  me 
in  my  solitary  hours,  and  I  love  to  sit  here 
upon  the  balcony,  and  con  its  poetic  language 
and  sweet  imagery.  You  shall  see  the  vol 
ume  ;  I  carry  it  in  my  bosom." 

With  these  words,  the  monk  drew  from  the 
folds  of  his  gown  a  small  volume,  bound  in 
parchment,  and  clasped  with  silver  ;  and,  turn 
ing  over  its  well  worn  leaves,  continued  :  — 

"  In  the  introduction,  the  author  describes 
himself  as  walking  upon  the  sea-shore  at  Ostia, 
in  company  with  his  friends  Octavius  and  Cae 
cilius.  Observe  in  what  beautiful  language  he 
describes  the  scene." 

Here  he  read  to  me  the  following  passage, 
which  I  transcribe,  not  from  memory,  but  from 
the  book  itself. 

"  It  was  vacation-time,  and  that  gave  me 
aloose  from  my  business  at  the  bar ;  for  it  was 


The   Village  of  La  Riccia        345 

the  season  after  the  summer's  heat,  when  au 
tumn  promised  fair,  and  put  on  the  face  of 
temperate.  We  set  out,  therefore,  in  the 
morning  early,  and  as  we  were  walking  upon 
the  sea-shore,  and  a  kindly  breeze  fanned  and 
refreshed  our  limbs,  and  the  yielding  sand  soft 
ly  submitted  to  our  feet  and  made  it  delicious 
travelling,  Caecilius  on  a  sudden  espied  the 
statue  of  Serapis,  and,  according  to  the  vulgar 
mode  of  superstition,  raised  his  hand  to  his 
mouth,  and  paid  his  adoration  in  kisses.  Upon 
which,  Octavius,  addressing  himself  to  me, 
said,  —  'It  is  not  well  done,  my  brother  Mar 
cus,  thus  to  leave  your  inseparable  companion 
in  the  depth  of  vulgar  darkness,  and  to  suffer 
him,  in  so  clear  a  day,  to  stumble  upon 
stones  ;  stones,  indeed,  of  figure,  and  anointed 
with  oil,  and  crowned  ;  but  stones,  however, 
still  they  are  ;  —  for  you  cannot  but  be  sensible 
that  your  permitting  so  foul  an  error  in  your 
friend  redounds  no  less  to  your  disgrace  than 
his. '  This  discourse  of  his  held  us  through 
half  the  city  ;  and  now  we  began  to  find  our 
selves  upon  the  free  and  open  shore.  There 
the  gently  washing  waves  had  spread  the  ex- 
tremest  sands  into  the  order  of  an  artificial 
walk  ;  and  as  the  sea  always  expresses  some 


346       The   Village  of  La  Riccia 

roughness  in  his  looks,  even  when  the  winds 
are  still,  although  he  did  not  roll  in  foam  and 
angry  surges  to  the  shore,  yet  were  we  much 
delighted,  as  we  walked  upon  the  edges  of  the 
water,  to  see  the  crisping,  frizzly  waves  glide 
in  snaky  folds,  one  while  playing  against  our 
feet,  and  then  again  retiring  and  lost  in  the 
devouring  ocean.  Softly  then,  and  calmly  as 
the  sea  about  us,  we  travelled  on,  and  kept 
upon  the  brim  of  the  gently  declining  shore, 
beguiling  the  way  with  our  stories." 

Here  the  sound  of  the  convent-bell  inter 
rupted  the  reading  of  the  monk,  and,  closing 
the  volume,  he  replaced  it  in  his  bosom,  and 
bade  me  farewell,  with  a  parting  injunction  to 
read  the  "  Octavius "  of  Minutius  Felix  as 
soon  as  I  should  return  to  Rome. 

During  the  summer  months,  La  Riccia  is  a 
favorite  resort  of  foreign  artists  who  are  pursu 
ing  their  studies  in  the  churches  and  galleries 
of  Rome.  Tired  of  copying  the  works  of  art, 
they  go  forth  to  copy  the  works  of  nature; 
and  you  will  find  them  perched  on  their  camp- 
stools  at  every  picturesque  point  of  view,  with 
white  umbrellas  to  shield  them  from  the  sun, 
and  paint-boxes  upon  their  knees,  sketching 
with  busy  hands  the  smiling  features  of  the 


T/ie   Village  of  La  Riccia        347 

landscape.  The  peasantry,  too,  are  fine  mod 
els  for  their  study.  The  women  of  Genzano 
are  noted  for  their  beauty,  and  almost  every 
village  in  the  neighborhood  has  something  pe 
culiar  in  its  costume. 

The  sultry  day  was  closing,  and  I  had 
reached,  in  my  accustomed  evening's  walk, 
the  woodland  gallery  that  looks  down  upon 
the  Alban  Lake.  The  setting  sun  seemed  to 
melt  away  in  the  sky,  dissolving  into  a  golden 
rain,  that  bathed  the  whole  Campagna  with 
unearthly  splendor ;  while  Rome  in  the  dis- 

<% 

tance,  half-hidden,  half-revealed,  lay  floating 
like  a  mote  in  the  broad  and  misty  sunbeam. 
The  woodland  walk  before  me  seemed  roofed 
with  gold  and  emerald  ;  and  at  intervals  across 
its  leafy  arches  shot  the  level  rays  of  the  sun, 
kindling,  as  they  passed,  like  the  burning  shaft 
of  Acestes.  Beneath  me  the  lake  slept  quiet 
ly.  A  blue,  smoky  vapor  floated  around  its 
overhanging  cliffs  ;  the  tapering  cone  of  Monte 
Cavo  hung  reflected  in  the  water  ;  a  little  boat 
skimmed  along  its  glassy  surface,  and  I  could 
even  hear  the  sound  of  the  laboring  oar,  so 
motionless  and  silent  was  the  air  around  me. 
I  soon  reached  the  convent  of  Castel  Gan- 
dolfo.  Upon  one  of  the  stone  benches  of  the 


348       The   Village  of  La  Riccia 

esplanade  sat  a  monk  with  a  book  in  his  hand. 
He  saluted  me,  as  I  approached,  and  some 
trivial  remarks  upon  the  scene  before  us  led 
us  into  conversation.  I  observed  by  his  ac 
cent  that  he  was  not  a  native  of  Italy,  though 
he  spoke  Italian  with  great  fluency.  In  this 
opinion  I  was  confirmed  by  his  saying  that  he 
should  soon  bid  farewell  to  Italy  and  return  to 
his  native  lakes  and  mountains  in  the  north  of 
Ireland.  I  then  said  to  him  in  English, — 

"  How  strange,  that  an  Irishman  and  an  An 
glo-American  should  be  conversing  together 
in  Italian"  upon  the  shores  of  Lake  Albano  ! " 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  he,  with  a  smile ;  "  though 
stranger  things  have  happened.  But  I  owe  the 
pleasure  of  this  meeting  to  a  circumstance 
which  changes  that  pleasure  into  pain.  I  have 
been  detained  here  many  weeks  beyond  the 
time  I  had  fixed  for  my  departure  by  the  ill 
ness  of  a  friend,  who  lies  at  the  point  of  death 
within  the  walls  of  this  convent." 

"  Is  he,  too,  a  Capuchin  friar  like  yourself? " 

"  He  is.  We  came  together  from  our  native 
land,  some  six  years  ago,  to  study  at  the  Jesuit 
College  in  Rome.  This  summer  we  were  to 
have  returned  home  again  ;  but  I  shall  now 
make  the  journey  alone." 


The   Village  of  La  Riccia        349 

"  Is  there,  then,  no  hope  of  his  recovery  ?  " 
"  None  whatever,"  answered  the  monk,  shak 
ing  his  head.  "He  has  been  brought  to  this 
convent  from  Rome,  for  the  benefit  of  a  purer 
air ;  but  it  is  only  to  die,  and  be  buried  near 
the  borders  of  this  beautiful  lake.  He  is  a  vic 
tim  of  consumption.  But  come  with  me  to  his 
cell.  He  will  feel  it  a  kindness  to  have  you 
visit  him.  Such  a  mark  of  sympathy  in  a 
stranger  will  be  grateful  to  him  in  this  foreign 
land,  where  friends  are  so  few." 

We  entered  the  chapel  together,  and,  ascend 
ing  a  flight  of  steps  beside  the  altar,  passed  in 
to  the  cloisters  of  the  convent.  Another  flight 
of  steps  led  us  to  the  dormitories  above,  in  one 
of  which  the  sick  man  lay.  Here  my  guide 
left  me  for  a  moment,  and  softly  entered  a 
neighboring  cell.  He  soon  returned  and  beck 
oned  me  to  come  in.  The  room  was  dark  and 
hot ;  for  the  window-shutters  had  been  closed 
to  keep  out  the  rays  of  the  sun,  that  in  the  af 
ter  part  of  the  day  fell  unobstructed  upon  the 
western  wall  of  the  convent.  In  one  corner  of 
the  little  room,  upon  a  pallet  of  straw,  lay  the 
sick  man,  with  his  face  towards  the  wall.  As 
I  entered,  he  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow, 
and,  stretching  out  his  hand  to  me,  said,  in  a 
faint  voice,  — 


350       The   Village  of  La  Riccia 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  It  is  kind  in  you  to 
make  me  this  visit." 

Then  speaking  to  his  friend,  he  begged  him 
to  open  the  shutters  and  let  in  the  light  and 
air  ;  and  as  the  bright  sunbeam  through  the 
wreathing  vapors  of  evening  played  upon  the 
wall  and  ceiling,  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  — 

"  How  beautiful  is  an  Italian  sunset !  Its 
splendor  is  all  around  us,  as  if  we  stood  in  the 
horizon  itself  and  could  touch  the  sky.  And 
yet,  to  a  sick  man's  feeble  and  distempered 
sight,  it  has  a  wan  and  sickly  hue.  He  turns 
away  with  an  aching  heart  from  the  splendor 
he  cannot  enjoy.  The  cool  air  seems  the  only 
friendly  thing  that  is  left  for  him." 

As  he  spake,  a  deeper  shade  of  sadness  stole 
over  his  pale  countenance,  sallow  and  attenu 
ated  by  long  illness.  But  it  soon  passed  off: 
and  as  the  conversation  changed  to  other  top 
ics,  he  grew  cheerful  again.  He  spoke  of  his 
return  to  his  native  land  with  childish  delight. 
This  hope  had  not  deserted  him.  It  seemed 
never  to  have  entered  his  mind  that  even  this 
consolation  would  be  denied  him,  —  that  death 
would  thwart  even  these  fond  anticipations. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  well  enough,"  said  he,  "  to 
undertake  the  journey ;  and,  O,  with  what 


The   Village  of  La  Riccia       35 1 

delight  shall  I  turn  my  back  upon  the  Apen 
nines  !  We  shall  cross  the  Alps  into  Switzer 
land,  then  go  down  the  Rhine  to  England,  and 
soon,  soon  we  shall  see  the  shores  of  the  Em 
erald  Isle,  and  once  more  embrace  father, 
mother,  sisters !  By  my  profession,  I  have 
renounced  the  world,  but  not  those  holy  emo 
tions  of  love  which  are  one  of  the  highest 
attributes  of  the  soul,  and  which,  though  sown 
in  corruption  here,  shall  hereafter  be  raised  in 
incorruption.  No  ;  even  he  that  died  for  us 
upon  the  cross,  in  the  last  hour,  in  the  unutter 
able  agony  of  death,  was  mindful  of  his  mother  ; 
as  if  to  teach  us  that  this  holy  love  should  be 
our  last  worldly  thought,  the  last  point  of  earth 
from  which  the  soul  should  take  its  flight  for 
heaven." 

He  ceased  to  speak.  His  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  the  sky  with  a  fixed  and  steady  gaze, 
though  all  unconsciously,  for  his  thoughts 
were  far  away  amid  the  scenes  of  his  distant 
home.  As  I  left  his  cell,  he  seemed  sinking  to 
sleep,  and  hardly  noticed  my  departure.  The 
gloom  of  twilight  had  already  filled  the  clois 
ters  ;  the  monks  were  chanting  their  even 
ing  hymn  in  the  chapel ;  and  one  unbroken 
shadow  spread  through  the  long  cathedral 


352       The   Village  of  La  Riccia 

aisle  ol  forest-trees  which  led  me  homeward. 
There,  in  the  silence  of  the  hour,  and  amid 
the  almost  sepulchral  gloom  of  the  woodland 
scene,  I  tried  to  impress  upon  my  careless 
heart  the  serious  and  affecting  lesson  I  had 
learned. 

I  saw  the  sick  monk  no  more  ;  but  a  day  or 
two  afterward  I  heard  in  the  village  that  he 
had  departed,  —  not  for  an  earthly,  but  for  a 
heavenly  home. 


NOTE-BOOK 


Qncr.  more  among  the  old,  gigantic  hills. 

With  vapors  clouded  o'er, 
The  vales  of  Lombardy  grow  dim  behind, 

And  rocks  ascend  before, 
lliey  beckon  me,  —  the  giants,  —  from  afar, 

They  wing  my  footsteps  on  ; 
Xheir  helms  of  ice,  their  plumage  of  the  pine, 

Their  cuirasses  of  stone. 

OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


THE  glorious  autumn  closed.  From  the 
Abruzzi  Mountains  came  the  Zampo- 
gnari,  playing  their  rustic  bagpipes  beneath 
the  images  of  the  Virgin  in  the  streets  of 
Rome,  and  hailing  with  rude  minstrelsy  the 
approach  of  merry  Christmas.  The  shops 
were  full  of  dolls  and  playthings  for  the  Bi- 
fana,  who  enacts  in  Italy  the  same  merry  in 
terlude  for  children  that  Santiclaus  does  in 
the  North  ;  and  travellers  from  colder  climes 
began  to  fly  southward,  like  sun-seeking  swal 
lows. 

I  left  Rome  for  Venice,  crossing  the  Apen 
nines  by  the  wild  gorge  of  the  Strettura,  in  a 
drenching  rain.  At  Fano  we  struck  into  the 
sands  of  the  Adriatic,  and  followed  the  sea- 


354  Note -Book 

shore  northward  to  Rimini,  where  in  the  mar 
ket-place  stands  a  pedestal  of  stone,  from 
which,  as  an  officious  cicerone  informed  me, 
"Julius  Caesar  preached  to  his  army,  before 
crossing  the  Rubicon."  Other  principal  points 
in  my  journey  were  Bologna,  with  its  Campo 
Santo,  its  gloomy  arcades,  and  its  sausages  ; 
Ferrara,  with  its  ducal  palace  and  the  dungeon 
of  Tasso  ;  Padua  the  Learned,  with  its  sombre 
and  scholastic  air,  and  its  inhabitants  "  apt  for 
pike  or  pen." 

I  FIRST  saw  Venice  by  moonlight,  as  we 
skimmed  by  the  island  of  St.  George  in  a  fe 
lucca,  and  entered  the  Grand  Canal.  A  thou 
sand  lamps  glittered  from  the  square  of  St. 
Mark,  and  along  the  water's  edge.  'Above 
rose  the  cloudy  shapes  of  spires,  domes,  and 
palaces,  emerging  from  the  sea  ;  and  occasion 
ally  the  twinkling  lamp  of  a  gondola  darted 
across  the  water  like  a  shooting  star,  and  sud 
denly  disappeared,  as  if  quenched  in  the 
wave.  •  There  was  something  so  unearthly  in 
the  scene,  —  so  visionary  and  fairy-like,  —  that 
I  almost  expected  to  see  the  city  float  away 
like  a  cloud,  and  dissolve  into  thin  air. 

Howell,  in  his  "  Signorie  of  Venice,"  says, 


Note -Book  355 

"  It  is  the  water,  wherein  she  lies  like  a 
swan's  nest,  that  doth  both  fence  and  feed 
her."  Again  :  "  She  swims  in  wealth  and 
wantonness,  as  well  as  she  doth  in  the  wa 
ters  ;  she  melts  in  softness  and  sensuality,  as 
much  as  any  other  whatsoever."  And  still 
farther :  "  Her  streets  are  so  neat  and  evenly 
paved,  that  in  the  dead  of  winter  one  may 
walk  up  and  down  in  a  pair  of  satin  pantables 
and  crimson  silk  stockings,  and  not  be  dirtied." 
And  the  old  Italian  proverb  says, — 

"Venegia,  Venegia, 
Chi  non  ti  vede  non  ti  pregia  ; 
Ma  chi  t'  ha  troppo  veduto 
Ti  dispregia  ! " 

Venice,  Venice,  who  sees  thee  not  doth  not 
prize  thee ;  but  who  hath  too  much  seen  thee 
doth  despise  thee  ! 

Should  you  ever  want  a  gondolier  at  Venice 
to  sing  you  a  passage  from  Tasso  by  moon 
light,  inquire  for  Toni  Toscan.  He  has  a 
voice  like  a  raven.  I  sketched  his  portrait 
in  my  note-book  ;  and  he  wrote  beneath  it 
this  inscription :  — 

"  Poeta  Natural  che  Venizian, 
Ch'  el  so  nome  xe  un  tal  Toni  Toscan." 


356  Note -Book 

THE  road  from  Venice  to  Trieste  traverses 
a  vast  tract  of  level  land,  with  the  Friulian 
Mountains  on  the  left,  and  the  Adriatic  on 
the  right.  You  pass  through  long  avenues 
of  trees,  and  the  road  stretches  in  unbroken 
perspective  before  and  behind.  Trieste  is  a 
busy,  commercial  city,  with  wide  streets  in 
tersecting  each  other  at  right  angles.  It  is 
a  mart  for  all  nations.  Greeks,  Turks,  Ital 
ians,  Germans,  French,  and  English  meet  you 
at  every  corner  and  in  every  coffee-house ;  and 
the  ever-changing  variety  of  national  counte 
nance  and  costume  affords  an  amusing  and 
instructive  study  for  a  traveller. 


TRIESTE  to  Vienna.  Daybreak  among  the 
Carnic  Alps.  Above  and  around  me  huge 
snow-covered  pinnacles,  shapeless  masses  in 
the  pale  starlight,  —  till  touched  by  the  morn 
ing  sunbeam,  as  by  Ithuriel's  spear,  they  as 
sume  their  natural  forms  and  dimensions.  A 
long,  winding  valley  beneath,  sheeted  with 
spotless  snow.  At  my  side  a  yawning  and 
rent  chasm  ;  — a  mountain  brook,  —  seen  now 
and  then  through  the  chinks  of  its  icy  bridge, 
—  black  and  treacherous,  —  and  tinkling  along 


Note -Book  357 

its  frozen  channel  with  a  sound  like  a  distant 
clanking  of  chains. 

Magnificent  highland  scenery  between  Gratz 
and  Vienna  in  the  Steiermark.  The  wild 
mountain-pass  from  Meerzuschlag  to  Schott- 
wien.  A  castle  built  like  an  eagle's  nest  upon 
the  top  of  a  perpendicular  crag.  A  little  ham 
let  at  the  base  of  the  mountain.  A  covered 
wagon,  drawn  by  twenty-one  horses,  slowly 
toiling  up  the  slippery,  zigzag  road.  A  snow 
storm.  Reached  Vienna  at  midnight. 


ON  the  southern  bank  of  the  Danube,  about 
sixteen  miles  above  Vienna,  stands  the  ancient 
castle  of  Greifenstein,  where  —  if  the  tale  be 
true,  though  many  doubt  and  some  deny  it  — • 
Richard  the  Lion-heart  of  England  was  impris 
oned,  when  returning  from  the  third  crusade. 
It  is  built  upon  the  summit  of  a  steep  and 
rocky  hill,  that  rises  just  far  enough  from  the 
river's  brink  to  leave  a  foothold  for  the  high 
way.  At  the  base  of  the  hill  stands  the  village 
of  Greifenstein,  from  which  a  winding  path 
way  leads  you  to  the  old  castle.  You  pass 
through  an  arched  gate  into  a  narrow  court 
yard,  and  thence  onward  to  a  large,  square 


358  Note -Book 

tower.  Near  the  doorway,  and  deeply  cut  into 
the  solid  rock,  upon  which  the  castle  stands,  is 
the  form  of  a  human  hand,  so  perfect  that  your 
own  lies  in  it  as  in  a  mould.  And  hence  the 
name  of  Greifenstein.  In  the  square  tower  is 
Richard's  prison,  completely  isolated  from  the 
rest  of  the  castle.  A  wooden  staircase  leads 
up  on  the  outside  to  a  light  balcony,  running 
entirely  round  the  tower,  not  far  below  its 
turrets.  From  this  balcony  you  enter  the 
prison,  —  a  small,  square  chamber,  lighted  by 
two  Gothic  windows.  The  walls  of  the  tower 
are  some  five  feet  thick  ;  and  in  the  pavement 
is  a  trap-door,  opening  into  a  dismal  vault,  — 
a  vast  dungeon,  which  occupies  all  the  lower 
part  of  the  tower,  quite  down  to  its  rocky 
foundations,  and  which  formerly  had  no  en 
trance  but  the  trap-door  above.  In  one  corner 
of  the  chamber  stands  a  large  cage  of  oaken 
timber,  in  which  the  royal  prisoner  is  said  to 
have  been  shut  up;  —  the  grossest  lie  that 
ever  cheated  the  gaping  curiosity  of  a  traveller. 
The  balcony  commands  some  fine  and  pic 
turesque  views.  Beneath  you  winds  the  lordly 
Danube,  spreading  its  dark  waters  over  a  wide 
tract  of  meadow-land,  and  forming  numerous 
little  islands  ;  and  all  around,  the  landscape  is 


Note -Book  359 

bounded  by  forest-covered  hills,  topped  by  the 
mouldering  turrets  of  a  feudal  castle  or  the 
tapering  spire  of  a  village  church.  The  spot 
is  well  worth  visiting,  though  German  antiqua 
ries  say  that  Richard  was  not  imprisoned 
there  ;  this  story  being  at  best  a  bold  conjec 
ture  of  what  is  possible,  though  not  probable. 


FROM  Vienna  I  passed  northward,  visiting 
Prague,  Dresden,  and  Leipsic,  and  then  fold 
ing  my  wings  for  a  season  in  the  scholastic 
shades  of  Gottingen.  Thence  I  passed  through 
Cassel  to  Frankfort  on  the  Maine ;  and  thence 
to  Mayence,  where  I  took  the  steamboat  down 
the  Rhine.  These  several  journeys  I  shall  not 
describe,  for  as  many  several  reasons.  First, 
—  but  no  matter,  —  I  prefer  thus  to  stride 
across  the  earth  like  the  Saturnian  in  Mi- 
cromegas,  making  but  one  step  from  the  Adri 
atic  to  the  German  Ocean.  I  leave  untold  the 
wonders  of  the  wondrous  Rhine,  a  fascinating 
theme.  Not  even  the  beauties  of  the  Vauts- 
burg  and  the  Bingenloch  shall  detain  me.  I 
hasten,  like  the  blue  waters  of  that  romantic 
river,  to  lose  myself  in  the  sands  of  Holland. 


THE  PILGRIM'S   SALUTATION 


Ye  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon  and  scallop-shell. 

CHILDE  HAROLD. 


THESE,  fair  dames  and  courteous  gentle 
men,  are  some  of  the  scenes  and  musings 
of  my  pilgrimage,  when  I  journeyed  away  from 
my  kith  and  kin  into  the  land  of  Outre-Mer. 
And  yet  amid  these  scenes  and  musings, — 
amid  all  the  novelties  of  the  Old  World,  and 
the  quick  succession  of  images  that  were  con 
tinually  calling  my  thoughts  away,  there  were 
always  fond  regrets  and  longings  after  the  land 
of  my  birth  lurking  in  the  secret  corners  of  my 
heart.  When  I  stood  by  the  sea-shore,  and 
listened  to  the  melancholy  and  familiar  roar  of 
its  waves,  it  seemed  but  a  step  from  the  thresh 
old  of  a  foreign  land  to  the  fireside  of  home  ; 
and  when  I  watched  the  out-bound  sail,  fading 
over  the  water's  edge,  and  losing  itself  in  the 
blue  mists  of  the  sea,  my  heart  went  with  it, 


The  Pilgrim's  Salutation       361 

and  I  turned  away  fancy-sick  with  the  bless 
ings  of  home  and  the  endearments  of  domestic 
love. 

"  I  know  not  how,  — but  in  yon  land  of  roses 

My  heart  was  heavy  still ; 
I  startled  at  the  warbling  nightingale, 

The  zephyr  on  the  hill. 
They  said  the  stars  shone  with  a  softer  gleam  : 

It  seemed  not  so  to  me  ! 
In  vain  a  scene  of  beauty  beamed  around,  — 

My  thoughts  were  o'er  the  sea  " 

At  times  I  would  sit  at  midnight  in  the 
solitude  of  my  chamber,  and  give  way  to  the 
recollection  of  distant  friends.  How  delightful 
it  is  thus  to  strengthen  within  us  the  golden 
threads  that  unite  our  sympathies  with  the  past, 
—  to  fill  up,  as  it  were,  the  blanks  of  existence 
with  the  images  of  those  we  love !  How  sweet 
are  these  dreams  of  home  in  a  foreign  land  ! 
How  calmly  across  life's  stormy  sea  blooms 
that  little  world  of  affection,  like  those  Hespe 
rian  isles  where  eternal  summer  reigns,  and  the 
olive  blossoms  all  the  year  round,  and  honey 
distils  from  the  hollow  oak !  Truly,  the  love 
of  home  is  interwoven  with  all  that  is  pure,  and 
deep,  and  lasting  in  earthly  affection.  Let  us 
wander  where  we  may,  the  heart  looks  back 
with  secret  longing  to  the  paternal  roof.  There 
16 


362          The  Pilgrim's  Salutation 

the  scattered  rays  of  affection  concentrate. 
Time  may  enfeeble  them,  distance  overshadow 
them,  and  the  storms  of  life  obstruct  them  for 
a  season ;  but  they  will  at  length  break  through 
the  cloud  and  storm,  and  glow,  and  burn,  and 
brighten  around  the  peaceful  threshold  of  home. 

And  now,  farewell !  The  storm  is  over,  and 
through  the  parting  clouds  the  radiant  sun 
shine  breaks  upon  my  path.  God's  blessing 
upon  you  for  your  hospitality.  I  fear  I  have 
but  poorly  repaid  it  by  these  tales  of  my  pil 
grimage  ;  and  I  bear  your  kindness  meekly, 
for  I  come  not  like  Theudas  of  old,  "  boasting 
myself  to  be  somebody." 

Farewell  !  My  prayer  is,  that  I  be  not 
among  you  as  the  stranger  at  the  court  of 
Busiris  ;  that  your  God-speed  be  not  a  thrust 
that  kills. 

The  Pilgrim's  benison  upon  this  honorable 
company.  Pax  vobiscum  ! 


COLOPHON 


Heart,  take  thine  ease,  — 
Men  hard  to  please 

Thou  haply  mightst  offend 
Though  some  speak  ill 
Of  thee,  some  will 

Say  better  ;  —  there 's  an  end. 

HEYUN. 


MY  pilgrimage  is  ended.  I  have  come 
home  to  rest ;  and,  recording  the  time 
past,  I  have  fulfilled  these  things,  and  written 
them  in  this  book,  as  it  would  come  into  my 
mind,  —  for  the  most  part,  when  the  duties  of 
the  day  were  over,  and  the  world  around  me 
was  hushed  in  sleep.  The  pen  wherewith  I 
write  most  easily  is  a  feather  stolen  from  the 
sable  wing  of  night.  Even  now,  as  I  record 
these  parting  words,  it  is  long  past  midnight. 
The  morning  watches  have  begun.  And  as  I 
write,  the  melancholy  thought  intrudes  upon 
me,  —  To  what  end  is  all  this  toil  ?  Of  what 
avail  these  midnight  vigils  ?  Dost  thou  covet 
fame  ?  Vain  dreamer  !  A  few  brief  days,  — 
and  what  will  the  busy  world  know  of  thee  ? 


364  Colophon 

Alas !  this  little  book  is  but  a  bubble  on  the 
stream  ;  and  although  it  may  catch  the  sun 
shine  for  a  moment,  yet  it  will  soon  float 
down  the  swift-rushing  current,  and  be  seen 
no  more ! 


DRIFT-WOOD 


So  must  I  likewise  take  some  time  to  view 
What  I  have  done,  ere  I  proceed  anew. 
Perhaps  I  may  have  cause  to  interline, 
To  alter,  or  to  add ;   the  work  is  mine, 
And  I  may  manage  it  as  I  see  best. 

QUARLES. 


ANCIENT  FRENCH  ROMANCES 

FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF   PAULIN   PARIS* 
1833 

THE  very  name  of  Queen  Bertha  carries 
us  back  to  the  remotest  period  of  the 
good  old  times.  Many  an  ancient  romance 
records  the  praises  of  her  unspotted  virtue  ; 
and,  if  we  may  rely  upon  the  testimony  of  a 
song-writer  of  the  nineteenth  century,  it  was 
she  who  founded  the  monastery  of  Sainte- 
Avelle,  dedicated  to  Our  Lady  of  the  Woods. 
I  know  not  whether  you  have  ever  observed 
among  the  statues  that  look  down  upon  us 
from  the  portals  of  our  Gothic  churches,  the 
figure  known  throughout  France  by  the  name 
of  la  Reine  Pedauqiie,  Queen  Goose-Foot.  She 
is  the  heroine  of  our  romance  ;  and,  be  it  said 
with  all  the  veracity  of  an  historian,  for  this 
opprobrious  surname  she  must  thank  her  own 

*  A  Letter  to  M.  de  Monmerque  prefixed  to  Li  Romans  de 
fierte  aus  Grans  Pi&,  and  reprinted  in  Ferussac's  Bulletin 
Universel,  from  which  this  translation  was  made. 


4  Drift -Wood 

feet,  whose  vast  dimensions  are  revealed  to  us 
by  the  indiscretion  of  the  statuary.  During 
her  lifetime  she  was  surnamed  Bertha  of  the 
Great-Feet  ;  after  her  death,  she  was  neither 
more  nor  less  than  Bertha  of  the  Goose-Feet. 
So  true  is  it  that  the  origin  of  the  custom  of 
flattering  the  great  while  living,  and  reviling 
them  when  dead,  is  lost  in  the  night  of  ages. 
The  story  of  Queen  Pedauque  reminds  me  of 
poor  Midas  ;  perhaps  the  ears  of  the  Phrygian 
monarch,  who  fell  a  victim  to  the  malevolence  of 
his  barber,  were  in  truth  only  somewhat  long. 
This  statue  of  Queen  Pedauque  has  long 
exercised  the  imagination  of  the  antiquaries. 
They  have  successively  imagined  it  to  be  Clo- 
tilde,  wife  of  Clovis,  Brunehault,  and  Frede- 
gonde.  The  Abbe"  Lebceuf,  however,  supposes 
it  to  be  the  queen  of  Sheba  ;  though  it  is  no 
easy  matter  to  devise  why  the  Abbe*  Leboeuf, 
generally  so  very  considerate,  should  thus 
have  felt  himself  obliged  to  call  in  question 
the  beauty  of  the  Oriental  princess,  and  the 
practised  taste  of  Solomon,  the  wisest  of  men. 
He  remarks,  in  his  learned  dissertation,  that 
the  Masorites,  who  were  great  admirers  of  the 
hands  of  the  queen  of  Sheba,  have  maintained 
the  most  scrupulous  silence  in  regard  to  her 


Ancient  French  Romances  5 

feet  :  —  there  is,  however,  a  vast  distance  be 
tween  the  silence  of  Biblical  commentators, 
and  the  conjecture  he  allows  himself. 

Now  both  the  historians  and  the  poets,  who 
make  mention  of  Queen  Bertha,  affirm  that 
she  had  large  feet ;  and  this  is  the  first  point 
of  analogy  between  her  and  the  celebrated 
statue.  Moreover,  the  inhabitants  of  Tou 
louse,  according  to  the  author  of  the  Contes  d* 
Eutrapel,  are  in  the  habit  of  swearing  by  the 
distaff  of  Queen  Pedauque,  — par  la  quenouille 
de  la  reine  Pcdanqiic  ;  while  we  speak  pro 
verbially  of  the  time  when  Bertha  span,  —  du 
temps  que  Bcrthe  filait ;  and  the  Italians  say, 
in  nearly  the  same  signification,  "  The  days 
when  Bertha  span  have  gone  by," —  Non  £ piu 
il  tempo  che  Berta  filava.  After  all  this,  and 
especially  after  the  direct  testimony  of  the 
poem  which  I  now  present  you,  how  can  any 
one  doubt  the  perfect  identity  of  Bertha  of 
the  Great  Feet,  and  the  Queen  of  the  Goose 
Feet  ?  I  entertain  a  high  respect  for  the  Abbe 
Leboeuf,  but  a  higher  for  the  truth  ;  and  I 
cannot  refrain  from  expressing  my  opinion, 
that  he  would  have  done  better  to  look  to 
the  court  of  Pepin-le-Bref  for  the  model  of 
the  statue  which  he  saw  at  the  church  of 


6  Drift-Wood 

Saint-Be"nigne  in  Dijon,  at  the  cathedral  of 
Nevers,  at  the  priory  of  Saint-Pourgain,  and 
at  the  abbey  of  Nesle. 

Bertha,  the  wife  of  Pepin,  has  been  often 
named  by  the  most  respectable  historians. 
She  died  in  783,  and  until  the  revolution  of 
1793  her  tomb  was  still  to  be  seen  in  the 
vaults  of  Saint-Denis.  It  bore  this  beauti 
ful  inscription  :  Berta  mater  Caroli  Magni. 

Eginhart  speaks  of  the  respectful  defer 
ence  which  the  hero  of  the  West  generally 
paid  to  the  virtues  of  his  mother.  All  histo 
rians  coincide  in  regard  to  the  time  of  her  cor 
onation  and  her  death  ;  but  in  regard  to  the 
name  of  her  father,  some  difference  of  opin 
ion  prevails.  According  to  the  "  Annals  of 
Metz,"  she  was  the  daughter  of  Caribert, 
Count  of  Laon  ;  but  unfortunately  for  this 
hypothesis,  the  city  of  Laon  was  not  at  that 
time  governed  by  a  count.  Some  trace  her 
origin  to  the  court  of  Constantinople,  and 
others  to  the  kingdom  of  Germany.  You  will 
perceive  that  our  poet  has  embraced  this  last 
opinion.  In  the  romance,  Flores,  king  of  Hun 
gary,  is  father  of  Bertha  of  the  Great  Feet. 
This  Flores  himself  and  his  wife  Blanche- 
fleurs  are  the  hero  and  heroine  of  another 


Ancient  French  Romances  7 

celebrated  poem  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and 
their  adventures,  badly  enough  analyzed  in 
one  of  the  numbers  of  the  Bibliothcque  des 
Romans,  seem  to  have  been  put  into  rhyme 
before  those  of  Queen  Bertha  their  daughter. 

Thus,  it  appears  that  Bertha  can  boast  her 
statuaries  as  well  as  her  poets  ;  but  whilst 
the  former  have  given  to  her  countenance  a 
marked  and  striking  character,  the  latter,  by 
recording  her  touching  misfortunes,  have  only 
followed  the  beaten  path,  and  added  another 
delicate  flower  to  that  poetic  wreath,  which 
was  woven  in  the  heroic  ages  of  our  history. 
The  poem  of  Bertha  is  one  of  the  series  of 
"  Romances  of  the  Twelve  Peers."  It  belongs 
to  the  number  of  those  great  epic  composi 
tions,  whose  origin  is  incontestably  linked 
to  the  cradle  of  the  modern  languages,  and 
whose  subjects  are  always  borrowed  from  our 
old  national  traditions. 

Until  the  present  day,  both  critics  and  an 
tiquaries  have  neglected  to  examine  these  sin 
gular  creations  of  the  human  mind.  Even 
those  who  have  been  wise  enough  to  avail 
themselves  of  them  in  the  composition  of 
their  learned  works,  have  gone  no  farther 
than  to  make  such  extracts  as  would  throw 


8  Drift-Wood 

light  upon  the  subjects  of  heraldry  or  phi 
lology,  hardly  bestowing  a  passing  glance 
upon  those  questions  of  manners  and  litera 
ture  which  they  might  suggest,  enlighten, 
and  perhaps  resolve.  It  is  strange  that  the 
press  should  have  been  so  busy  in  giving  to 
the  world  the  Fabliaux,  which  lay  buried  in 
our  vast  libraries,  and  yet  should  never  have 
preserved  from  the  most  unmerited  oblivion  a 
single  one  of  these  ancient  epics !  If  by  a 
catastrophe,  improbable,  yet  not  impossible, 
the  Royal  Cabinet  of  Manuscripts  should  be 
destroyed,  nothing  of  our  old  heroic  poetry 
would  remain  but  a  few  shreds  scattered  here 
and  there  through  the  "  Glossary"  of  Ducange 
and  the  "  History  of  Lorraine  "  by  Dom  Cal- 
met.  Such  a  loss  would  indeed  be  immense 
and  irreparable  to  those  who  wish,  even  at  this 
distant  period,  to  study  the  manners  and  cus 
toms  of  our  ancestors. 

Perhaps,  then,  I  may  justly  claim  some  right 
to  the  thanks  of  the  friends  of  letters  for  this 
attempt  to  preserve  and  perpetuate  the  "Ro 
mances  of  the  Twelve  Peers  of  France."  I 
now  commence  the  series  of  these  publica 
tions  with  Bcrte  aus  Grans  Pi/s.  In  selecting 
this  poem  of  the  minstrel-king  Adenes,  I  have 


Ancient  French  Romances  9 

been  guided  by  the  consideration,  that,  in  or 
der  to  gain  readers  for  our  ancient  poets,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  commence,  not  with 
the  most  beautiful,  but  with  the  shortest,  and 
the  least  encumbered  with  philological  diffi 
culties.  And  again,  the  romance  of  Bertha, 
however  inferior  it  may  be  to  some  of  the 
longer  romances  of  the  twelfth  century,  as, 
for  example,  Raoul  de  Cambrai,  Guillaume  au 
Court  Nez,  or  Garin  de  Loherain,  nevertheless 
possesses  the  most  lively  interest  for  readers 
of  the  present  age.  Besides,  as  its  subject  is 
drawn  from  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Pepin- 
le-Bref,  it  has  the  advantage  of  commencing 
that  series  of  historic  paintings,  of  which  the 
eighth  and  ninth  centuries  are  the  frame. 

And  now  I  will  venture  a  few  reflections 
upon  the  structure  of  all  these  great  works, 
which  I  would  willingly  call  our  French 
Epics,  had  it  not  been  decided,  since  the 
days  of  Ron  sard,  Chapelain,  and  Voltaire, 
that  the  French  have  no  genius  for  epic 
poetry,  and  had  not  the  word  Epic,  which 
always  recalls  the  Iliad  of  Homer,  been  of 
late  so  much  abused.  But  in  thus  submit 
ting  my  opinions  to  your  judgment,  I  feel 
myself  bound  to  advance  nothing  either  in- 


io  Drift-  Wood 

correct  or  imaginary.  Besides,  I  am  well 
aware  that  at  length  we  have  become  quite 
weary  of  those  long  and  admirable  theories, 
to  which  nothing  is  wanting  but  proof.  All 
mine  will  be  found  in  the  works  concerning 
which  I  now  write  to  you,  and  which  I  intend 
to  publish  in  succession,  if  leisure  and  the  fa 
vor  of  the  public  permit. 

Independently  of  sacred  subjects,  the  early 
French  poets  or  Trouvtres  of  the  Middle  Ages 
possessed  three  distinct  sources  of  inspiration ; 
the  traditions  of  classic  antiquity,  of  the  Brit 
ons,  and  of  the  French.  All  the  chief  com 
positions  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  down  to  the 
thirteenth  century,  may  be  traced  back  to  one 
of  these  three  sources. 

To  the  first  belong  the  numerous  poems 
of  Alexander  the  Great,  Philip  of  Macedon, 
^Eneas,  the  valiant  Hector,  Jason,  and  The 
seus.  But  this  class  of  traditions  has.  lost 
all  its  value,  through  our  study  of  the  ele 
ments  of  ancient  history.  In  proportion  as 
we  have  been  farther  removed  from  antiquity, 
we  have  become  better  acquainted  with  it. 
The  writers  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  all 
more  or  less  the  dupes  of  the  simplicity  of 
their  own  times  ;  they  could  never  compre- 


Ancient  French  Romances          11 

hend  the  distinction  between  the  fictions  of 
the  poets  of  the  historic  ages,  and  the  nar 
ratives  of  prose-writers.  And  hence,  blend 
ing  the  most  marvellous  tales  with  the  more 
authentic  events  of  history,  they  have  made  of 
the  records  of  antiquity  a  confused  picture, 
totally  destitute  of  every  kind  of  perspective. 
We  can  derive  no  possible  advantage,  then, 
from  their  undiscriminating  imitations  ;  and 
their  simple  credulity,  exercised  alike  towards 
Ovid  and  Cornelius  Nepos,  soon  becomes  in 
supportable. 

The  traditions  of  the  Britons,  however,  are 
full  of  lively  interest.  The  romances  of  the 
Round  Table,  which  have  sprung  from  these 
traditions,  refer  us  back  to  a  glorious  epoch  in 
the  history  of  Albion  ;  an  epoch,  of  which,  by 
some  strange  fatality,  no  distinct  account  has 
been  transmitted  to  us.  All  that  we  can  be 
said  to  know  is,  that  in  the  fifth  century,  whilst 
Clovis  was  laying  the  foundation  of  the  French 
empire,  the  Britons,  more  successful  than  the 
Gauls,  repulsed  the  hordes  of  Picts,  Angles, 
and  Saxons  who  menaced  them  on  all  sides. 
Arthur  was  then  their  king.  A  century  later, 
naving  fallen  a  prey  to  those  fierce  barbari 
ans,  the  Britons  cherished  the  memory  of  a 


1 2  Drift-  Wood 

hero,  whose  name  represented  all  that  a  noble- 
minded  people  esteems  most  dear  on  earth,  — • 
religion  and  liberty.  Songs  of  departed  glory 
are  the  privilege  of  a  conquered  people,  and 
prophetic  hopes  are  a  consolation  seldom  want 
ing  to  the  oppressed.  Thus  sprang  up  and 
multiplied  those  marvellous  tales,  which  re 
corded  the  glory  of  Arthur,  and  in  which  the 
recollection  of  former  victories  was  joined  to 
the  promise  of  victories  yet  to  come.  Not  far 
from  the  twelfth  century,  a  priest  collected 
various  traditions,  and  wrought  them  up  into 
those  religious  forms  in  which  his  zeal  prompt 
ed  him  to  embody  them.  This  collection,  origi 
nally  written  in  Latin,  was  afterwards  trans 
lated  into  the  vulgar  tongue  in  prose  during 
the  reign  of  Henry  the  Second,  father  of  Rich 
ard  Cceur  de  Lion.  Erelong  it  reappeared  in 
a  poetic  dress  in  all  the  modern  languages  of 
Europe.  Even  at  the  present  day  the  old 
prose  translation  would  be  a  work  full  of 
pleasant  reading. 

Still  we  cannot  hope  to  trace  the  footsteps  of 
history  in  these  romances  of  the  Round  Table ; 
for  the  primitive  story  is  lost  amid  the  multi 
tude  of  episodes  and  embellishments.  Except 
ing  the  name  of  the  hero,  whose  deeds  they 


Ancient  French  Romances          13 

celebrate,  there  is  nothing  —  I  do  not  say  Cel 
tic,  for  that  would  be  too  indefinite  —  nothing 
Armoric  about  them.  The  heroic  valor  of  King 
Arthur  is  displayed  throughout ;  —  but  it  is 
directed  against  giants,  wild  beasts,  or  the  ad 
versaries  of  persecuted  beauty,  and  not  against 
the  oppressors  of  his  country.  His  steed  is 
barbed  with  iron,  and  we  recognize  the  gallant 
warrior's  shield  by  its  golden  crowns  in  a  field 
of  blue  ;  —  but  his  good  sword  Excalibur  seems 
rather  the  handiwork  of  a  skilful  Norman  ar 
tisan,  than  of  an  ancient  blacksmith  of  Ar- 
morica.  Let  us  not,  then,  seek  in  these  old 
romances  the  history  of  ages  anterior  to  the 
Roman,  Saxon,  or  even  Norman  conquest ; 
—  it  would  be  a  loss  of  time  and  labor.  But 
if  we  desire  only  piquant  adventures  of  love 
and  gallantry,  fierce  sabre-blows,  and  terrible 
encounters  of  Pagans  and  Christians,  we  shall 
find  enough  to  repay  the  study  of  this  ancient 
lore  ;  —  particularly  if  we  take  care  to  peruse 
the  oldest  prose  translations. 

We  now  come  to  the  old  romances,  which 
have  their  source  in  our  national  traditions. 
These  are  the  true  standard  of  our  ancient 
poetry  ;  for  surely  you  would  not  pretend,  that 
it  could  claim  a  very  elevated  rank  in  the  his- 


H  Drift -Wood 

tory  of  the  human  mind,  if  it  could  boast  no 
other  masterpieces  than  such  epics  as  the 
Alexandreide  or  Perceval ;  such  dramas  as  the 
Mysore  de  Saint  Christophe,  or  even  the  curi 
ous  and  simple  pastoral  of  Robin  et  Marion, 
for  whose  publication  we  are  indebted  to  you ; 
and,  in  fine,  such  satires  as  our  coarse  and 
vulgar  Fabliaux,  which  (as  one  of  our  most 
profound  and  erudite  scholars  has  remarked) 
are  generally  full  of  such  insipid  marvels.  Not 
having  sufficiently  compared  the  various  pro 
ductions  of  the  Middle  Ages,  we  have  hitherto 
been  in  the  habit  of  passing  judgment  upon 
them,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  in  the  lump, 
and  with  a  sweeping  expression  of  unlimited 
praise  or  censure.  Those  who  have  been  dis 
heartened  by  the  "  Romance  of  the  Rose,"  * 

*  "  Ce  est  li  Rommanz  de  la  Roze 

Ou  1'art  d'amors  est  tote  enclose. " 

The  "  Romance  of  the  Rose  "  is  an  allegorical  poem  of  no 
inconsiderable  fame.  It  was  commenced  about  the  middle  of 
the  thirteenth  century  by  Guillaume  de  Lorris,  and  completed 
nearly  a  half-century  later  by  Jean  de  Meun.  The  bitter  sar 
casms  against  the  corruption  and  hypocrisy  of  the  priesthood 
contained  in  this  Romaunt  drew  upon  it  and  its  authors  the 
anathemas  of  the  clergy.  A  certain  Gerson,  then  Chancellor 
of  Paris,  writes  thus  of  Meun  and  his  book  :  "  There  is  one 
Johannes  Meldinensis,  who  wrote  a  book  called  '  The  Ro 
maunt  of  the  Rose ' ;  which  book,  if  I  only  had,  and  that 


Ancient  French  Romances          1S 

or  the  "  Tales  of  Barbazan,"  *  can  discover 
nothing  in  our  ancient  literature  but  a  con 
fused  mass  of  coarse  and  tedious  fictions.  To 
others,  whom  a  more  superficial  study  of  the 
classics  has  rendered  more  indulgent  in  their 
opinions,  these  same  productions  appear  in  a 
far  different  light,  possessing  a  grace,  a  charm, 
a  simplicity,  that  no  language  can  describe  ; 
—  nay,  the  very  sight  of  a  manuscript  blotted 
with  ink  of  the  fourteenth  century  is  enough 
to  excite  their  enthusiasm.  Midway  between 
these  two  contending  parties,  and  on  the  field 
which  you  have  trodden  before  them,  all  ju 
dicious  critics  will  hereafter  pitch  their  tents. 
True,  it  is  painful  thus  to  annoy  the  doughty 
champions  of  the  ancient  Muse  of  France  ; 
but  the  love  of  the  Middle  Ages  bears  an  en 
chanter's  wand,  and  leads  its  votaries  blind- 
there  were  no  more  in  the  world,  if  I  might  have  five  hundred 
pound  for  the  same,  I  would  rather  burn  it  than  take  the 
money."  About  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  centuiy  the 
"  Romance  of  the  Rose "  was  translated  into  English  by 
Chaucer,  under  the  title  of  "The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose  ;  or 
the  Art  of  Love ;  wherein  is  showed  the  helpes  and  further 
ances,  and  also  the  lets  and  impediments  that  lovers  have  in 
their  suits."  TR. 

*  Fabliaux  et  Contes  des  Poetes  Fra^ois  des  XI.,  XII., 
XIII.,  XIV.  et  XV.  Siecles,  tires  des  Meilleurs  Auteursr 
oublies  par  Barbazan.  4  vols.  8vo.  TR. 


16  Drift -Wood 

fold  ;  and  I  fear,  that  if,  like  them,  we  should 
proclaim  the  merit  of  so  many  productions, 
composed  by  ignorant  mountebanks  to  amuse 
the  populace,  we  should  give  occasion  for  the 
belief,  that  we  are  incapable  of  appreciating 
the  full  value  of  those  great  poems,  which 
were  destined  to  charm  the  most  brilliant  as 
semblies,  and  grace  the  most  magnificent  fes 
tivals. 

The  same  remark  is  true  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  as  of  our  own,  and  of  every  age.  If 
the  state  of  society  is  shadowed  forth  in  its 
literature,  then  this  literature  must  necessari 
ly  represent  two  distinct  and  strongly  marked 
characters  ;  —  one,  of  the  castle  and  the  court ; 
another,  of  the  middle  classes  and  the  popu 
lace  ; —  the  former,  elegant,  harmonious,  and 
delicate  ;  the  latter,  rude,  grotesque,  and  vul 
gar.  Each  of  these  classes  has  its  own  pecu 
liar  merits  ;  but  our  manuscripts,  by  presenting 
them  to  us  united,  sometimes  in  the  same  vol 
ume,  and  always  upon  the  same  shelves  of  our 
libraries,  have  led  us  insensibly  into  the  habit 
of  confounding  the  manners  of  the  court  with 
those  of  the  city.  Hence  great  prejudices 
have  arisen  against  the  purity  of  some  of  our 
most  estimable  writers,  and  against  the  refine- 


Ancient  French  Romances          17 

ment  of  society  in  those  ages  in  which  they 
were  admired.  Hence,  too,  all  the  difficulties 
which  later  historians  have  encountered,  when, 
before  classifying  their  authorities,  they  have 
sought  to  examine  anew  the  manners  and  cus 
toms  of  an  age. 

But  the  desire  of  proving  that  even  in  the 
twelfth  century  there  was  a  refined  and  pol 
ished  class  in  society,  would  lead  me  too  far 
from  my  original  design,  and  I  will  therefore 
resist  the  temptation.  I  would  only  ask  those 
whom  the  love  of  a  native  land  they  do  know 
has  too  strongly  prejudiced  against  that  other 
and  earlier  native  land  they  do  not  know,  to 
cast  their  eyes  for  a  moment  upon  some  no 
ble  monument  of  Gothic  architecture  ;  for  ex 
ample,  upon  the  cathedral  of  Rheims.  When 
they  have  contemplated  this  "  Pantheon  of  our 
glory,"  as  a  writer  of  our  own  day  has  appro 
priately  called  it,  let  them  ask  themselves 
whether  those  ages  which  conceived  the  de 
sign  and  completed  the  construction  of  that 
noble  edifice,  ignorant  as  they  were  of  Homer, 
Cicero,  and  Quinctilian,  must  not  have  pos 
sessed  a  native  literature  worthy,  in  some  de 
gree,  of  such  a  stupendous  style  of  architec 
ture  ?  What !  Villehardouin,  Joinville,  Philip 


1 8  Drift -Wood 

Augustus,  and  Saint  Louis  ignorant  of  all 
other  poetry  but  the  burlesque  proverbs  of 
Marcon,  the  superstitious  reveries  of  Gautier 
de  Coinsy,  and  the  indecent  profanities  of 
such  writers  as  Rutebeuf  and  Jean  de  Cond6 ! 
Were  it  true  it  would  not  be  probable,  and,  in 
such  a  case,  we  must  say  that  Gothic  architec 
ture  is  an  effect  without  a  cause,  — prolem  sine 
matre  creatam. 

But  it  is  not  true.  We  possessed  in  former 
times  great  epic  poems,  which,  for  four  centu 
ries,  constituted  the  principal  study  of  our 
fathers.  And  during  that  period  all  Europe, 
—  Germany,  England,  Spain,  and  Italy,  —  hav 
ing  nothing  of  the  kind  to  boast  of,  either  in 
their  historic  recollections  or  in  their  historic 
records,  disputed  with  each  other  the  second 
ary  glory  of  translating  and  imitating  them. 

Even  amid  the  darkness  of  the  ninth  and 
tenth  centuries,  the  French  still  preserved 
the  recollection  of  an  epoch  of  great  national 
glory.  Under  Charlemagne,  they  had  spread 
their  conquests  from  the  Oder  to  the  Ebro, 
from  the  Baltic  to  the  Sicilian  sea.  Mussul 
mans  and  Pagans,  Saxons,  Lombards,  Bava 
rians,  and  Batavians,  —  all  had  submitted  to 
the  yoke  of  France,  all  had  trembled  at  the 


Ancient  French  Romances          19 

power  of  Charles  the  Great.  Emperor  of  the 
West,  King  of  France  and  Germany,  restorer 
of  the  arts  and  sciences,  wise  lawgiver,  great 
converter  of  infidels,  —  how  many  titles  to  the 
recollection  and  gratitude  of  posterity  !  Add 
to  this,  that  long  before  his  day  the  Franks 
were  in  the  habit  of  treasuring  up  in  their 
memory  the  exploits  of  their  ancestors  ;  that 
Charlemagne  himself,  during  his  reign,  caused 
all  the  heroic  ballads,  which  celebrated  the 
glory  of  the  nation,  to  be  collected  together ; 
and,  in  fine,  that  the  weakness  of  his  succes 
sors,  the  misfortunes  of  the  times,  and  the  in 
vasions  of  the  Normans  must  have  increased 
the  national  respect  and  veneration  for  the 
illustrious  dead,  —  and  you  will  be  forced  to 
confess  that,  if  no  poetic  monuments  of  the 
ninth  century  remained,  we  ought  rather  to 
conjecture  that  they  had  been  lost,  than  that 
they  had  never  existed. 

As  to  the  contemporaneous  history  of  those 
times,  it  offers  us,  if  I  may  so  speak,  only  the 
outline  of  this  imposing  colossus.  Read  the 
Annals  of  the  Abbey  of  Fulde  and  those  of 
Metz,  Paul  the  Deacon,  the  continuator  of 
Frede"gaire,  and  even  Eginhart  himself,  and 
you  will  there  find  registered,  in  the  rapid 


20  Drift-Wood 

style  of  an  itinerary,  the  multiplied  conquests 
of  the  French.  The  Bavarians,  the  Lombards, 
the  Gascons  revolt ;  —  Charles  goes  forth  to 
subdue  the  Bavarians,  the  Lombards,  and  the 
Gascons.  Witikind  rebels  ten  times,  and  ten 
times  Charles  passes  the  Rhine  and  routs  the 
insurgent  army  ;  and  there  the  history  ends. 
Nevertheless,  the  Emperor  had  his  generals, 
his  companions  in  glory,  his  rivals  in  genius  ; 
but  in  all  history  we  find  not  a  whisper  of 
their  services,  —  hardly  are  their  names  men 
tioned.  It  has  been  left  to  the  popular  ballads, 
barren  as  they  are  of  all  historic  authority,  to 
transmit  to  posterity  the  proofs  of  their  ancient 
renown. 

But  although  these  ancient  Chansons  de 
Geste,  or  historic  ballads,  fill  up  the  chasms  of 
true  history,  and  clothe  with  flesh  the  meagre 
skeleton  of  old  contemporaneous  chroniclers, 
yet  you  must  not  therefore  conclude  that  I 
am  prepared  to  maintain  the  truth  of  their 
narratives.  Far  from  it.  Truth  does  not  reign 
supreme  on  earth  ;  and  these  romances,  after 
all,  are  only  the  expression  of  public  opinion, 
separated  by  an  interval  of  many  generations 
from  that  whose  memory  they  transmit  to  us. 
But  to  supply  the  want  of  historians,  each 


Ancient  French  Romances          21 

great  epoch  in  national  history  inspires  the 
song  of  bards  ;  and  when  the  learned  and  the 
wise  neglect  to  prepare  the  history  of  events 
which  they  themselves  have  witnessed,  the 
people  prepare  their  national  songs  ;  their  so 
norous  voice,  prompted  by  childish  credulity 
and  a  free  and  unlimited  admiration,  echoes 
alone  through  succeeding  ages,  and  kindles 
the  imagination,  the  feelings,  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  children,  by  proclaiming  the  glory  of 
the  fathers.  Thus  Homer  sang  two  centuries 
after  the  Trojan  war  ;  and  thus  arose,  two  or 
three  centuries  after  the  death  of  Charle 
magne,  all  those  great  poems  called  the  "  Ro 
mances  of  the  Twelve  Peers." 

And  now  let  us  suppose  for  a  moment,  that, 
after  the  lapse  of  two  centuries,  the  mirror  of 
history  should  reflect  nothing  of  the  reign  of 
Napoleon,  but  the  majestic  figure  of  the  con 
queror  himself,  and  a  chronological  list  of  his 
victories  and  defeats.  Then  the  exploits  of 
his  marshals  and  the  deeds  of  his  high  digni 
taries  would  excite  the  suspicion  and  the  scep 
ticism  of  the  historian  ;  but  then,  too,  would 
songs  and  popular  ballads  proclaim  loudly,  not 
the  final  treason  of  Murat,  but  his  chivalrous 
gallantry ;  they  would  repeat  the  pretended 


22  Drift -Wood 

death  of  Cambronne,  and  the  odious  crimes 
with  which  the  people  so  blindly  charge  M. 
de  Raguse.  Nor  would  a  Roland  and  a 
Ganelon  suffice ;  around  the  new  Charle 
magne  would  be  grouped  another  warlike 
Almoner,  another  prudent  Duke  Naimes. 
Such,  were  history  silent,  would  be  outlines 
of  the  poetic  tale  ;  and  our  children  would 
easily  supply  the  coloring. 

To  return  to  the  Romances  of  the  Twelve 
Peers.  They  recommend  themselves  equally 
to  the  admiration  of  the  poet,  and  to  the  at 
tention  of  the  antiquary.  Whilst  the  former 
will  be  astonished  at  the  unity  of  the  plots, 
the  connection  of  the  episodes,  the  interest  of 
the  stories,  and  the  originality  of  the  descrip 
tions  they  contain,  the  latter  will  find  new 
light  thrown  by  them  upon  the  ancient  topog 
raphy  of  France,  upon  the  date  of  many  ven 
erable  structures,  and  upon  the  history  of  an 
infinite  number  of  cities,  fiefs,  chateaux,  and 
seigniories.  When  these  singular  productions 
shall  appear  in  the  broad  daylight  of  the  press, 
then  shall  we  see  France  enveloped  in  a  bright 
poetic  glory,  new  and  unexpected.  And,  on 
the  other  hand,  what  an  ample  field  will  then 
be  laid  open  for  new  doubts  concerning  our 


Ancient  French  Romances          23 

ancient  jurisprudence,  our  ancient  political 
constitution,  and  the  nature  of  the  feudal  sys 
tem,  so  complicated  in  modern  theory,  but  so 
natural  in  its  origin  and  so  simple  in  its  form  ! 
In  the  writings  of  our  old  romancers,  the  feu 
dal  system  is  embodied ;  it  moves,  acts,  speaks, 
battles  ;  now  with  the  monarch  at  its  head,  it 
is  present  at  the  tilts  and  tournaments,  and 
now  it  discusses  the  affairs  of  state  ;  now  it 
suffers  penalties,  and  now  cries  aloud  for  ven 
geance.  I  assert,  then,  without  fear  of  contra 
diction,  that,  in  order  to  become  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  history  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  —  I  do  not  mean  the  bare  history  of 
facts,  but  of  the  manners  and  customs  which 
render  those  facts  probable,  —  we  must  study 
it  in  the  pages  of  old  romance  ;  and  this  is 
the  reason  why  the  history  of  France  is  yet 
unwritten. 

Hitherto  the  fate  of  these  great  works  has 
been  a  singular  one.  I  have  already  remarked, 
that  for  the  space  of  four  hundred  years,  that 
is  from  the  eleventh  to  the  fifteenth  century, 
they  constituted  almost  the  only  literature  of 
our  ancestors.  Immediately  afterward  foreign 
nations  took  possession  of  them  ;  first  the  Ger 
mans,  and  next  the  Italians ;  and  it  would 


24  Drift -Wood 

seem,  that,  in  thus  relinquishing  them  to  our 
neighbors,  we  have  had  some  scruples  as  to 
the  propriety  of  retaining  even  so  much  as  the 
memory  of  them.  Thus  by  slow  degrees  they 
have  quite  disappeared  from  our  literature. 
The  renown,  however,  of  the  enchanting  fic 
tions  of  Pulci  and  Ariosto  gave  birth  to  a  few 
lifeless  and  paltry  imitations ;  only  one  point 
was  forgotten,  and  that  was  to  have  recourse 
to  the  old  Gallic  originals.  But,  alas !  what 
was  ancient  France,  her  history,  her  manners, 
and  her  literature,  to  a  class  of  writers  who 
only  dreamed  of  reviving  once  more  the  ages 
of  Rome  and  Athens,  and  who,  in  their  strange 
hallucination,  hoped  to  persuade  the  people  to 
suppress  all  rhyme  in  their  songs,  and  to  sup 
ply  its  place  by  dactyls  and  anapests. 

This  exclusive  love  of  classic  antiquity  ac 
quired  new  force  during  the  whole  of  the  sev 
enteenth  century  :  so  that  no  one  thought  of 
contradicting  Boileau,  when  he  so  carelessly 
called  Villon 

"  The  first  who,  in  those  rude,  unpolished  times, 
Cleared  the  dark  mystery  of  our  ancient  rhymes. " 

In  the  eighteenth  century  a  kind  of  conser 
vative  instinct  seemed  to  bring  our  men  of 
letters  back  to  the  productions  of  the  Middle 


Ancient  French  Romances          25 

Ages  ;  but  by  their  anxiety  to  remove  all  philo 
logical  difficulties  from  the  old  romances,  they 
have  retarded  the  time  when  these  poems  shall 
be  as  universally  read  among  us,  as  the  Ro- 
manceros  are  in  Spain,  and  Dante  and  Boccac 
cio  in  Italy.  The  imitations  of  Tressan  and 
Caylus  had  their  day ;  but  as  these  produc 
tions  were  tricked  out  to  suit  the  fashion  of 
the  age,  they  disappeared  with  the  fashion 
which  gave  them  birth. 

But  the  moment  seems  at  length  to  have 
arrived  when  these  ancient  poems  shall  be 
raised  from  the  dead.  A  desire  to  know  more 
of  the  earliest  monuments  of  modern  literature 
is  at  length  manifesting  itself  among  us  ;  and 
before  the  expiration  of  ten  years,  it  is  probable 
that  the  most  important  of  these  works  will 
have  emerged,  so  to  speak,  into  the  perpetual 
light  of  the  press. 

One  word  concerning  the  metre  of  these  po 
ems.  They  were  written  to  be  sung ;  and  this 
is  one  point  of  resemblance  observable  between 
the  old  Greek  rhapsodies  and  the  heroic  ballads 
of  France.  Doubtless  the  music  of  these  poems 
was  solemn  and  monotonous,  like  that  of  our 
devotional  chants,  or  those  village  songs,  whose 
final  notes  mark  the  recommencement  of  the 


26  Drift-  Wood 

tune.  The  ancient  ballad  of  Count  Orri  is  a 
piece  of  this  kind ;  and  so  also  is  the  burlesque 
description  of  the  death  of  Malbrouk,  if  you 
suppress  the  refrain.*  This  kind  of  music 
strikes  the  ear  agreeably,  though  its  cadence 
is  monotonous  ;  in  proof  of  which  I  appeal  to 
all  our  recollections  of  childhood. 

In  these  old  romances,  as  in  the  song  to 
which  I  have  just  alluded,  the  verse  is  mono- 
rhythmic,  and  the  metre  either  pentameter  or 
Alexandrine.  As  these  poems  were  written  to 
be  sung,  it  is  evident  that  the  pause  or  rest 
would  naturally  come  after  the  fourth  syllable 
in  pentameter  lines,  and  after  the  sixth  in  Al- 
exandrines.f  Nor  is  this  all.  This  necessary 
rest  in  the  middle  of  the  line  gave  the  poet  an 

*  Though  this  song  is  certainly  well  enough  known,  yet  it 
may  be  necessary  to  quote  a  few  lines  in  proof  of  my  asser 
tion.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  measure  is  Alexandrine,  and 
the  verse  monorhytkmic* 

"  Madame  a  sa  tour  monte,  —  si  haut  qu'el  peut  monter, 
Elle  aperfoit  son  page  —  de  noir  tout  habille. 
'  Beau  page,  mon  beau  page,  —  quel'  nouvelle  a  ortes  ? ' 
'  La  nouvell'  que  j'aporte,  — vos  beaux  yeux  vont  pleurer  ; 
Monsieur  Malbrough  est  mort,  — est  mort  et  enterre,'  "  etc. 

t  To  this  rest,  which  was  absolutely  essential  to  the  mu 
sical  accompaniment,  we  can  trace  back  the  use  of  the  hemi 
stich,  which  is  still  preserved  by  the  French,  though  all  othei 
modern  nations  have  abandoned  it. 


Ancient  French  Romances          27 

opportunity  of  introducing  at  the  close  of  the 
hemistich  an  unaccented  syllable,  as  at  the 
end  of  the  feminine  rhymes  of  the  present 
day. 

After  an  attentive  examination  of  our  an 
cient  literature,  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  for  a 
moment,  that  the  old  monorhythmic  romances 
were  set  to  music,  and  accompanied  by  a  viol, 
harp,  or  guitar  ;  and  yet  this  seems  hitherto  to 
have  escaped  observation.  In  the  olden  time 
no  one  was  esteemed  a  good  minstrel,  whose 
memory  was  not  stored  with  a  great  number 
of  historic  ballads,  like  those  of  Ronccsvalles, 
Garin  de  Loherain,  and  Gerars  de  Roussillon. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  any  one  of  these 
poems  was  ever  recited  entire  ;  but  as  the 
greater  part  of  them  contained  various  de 
scriptions  of  battles,  hunting  adventures,  and 
marriages,  —  scenes  of  the  court,  the  council, 
and  the  castle, — the  audience  chose  those  stan 
zas  and  episodes  which  best  suited  their  taste. 
And  this  is  the  reason  why  each  stanza  con 
tains  in  itself  a  distinct  and  complete  narra 
tive,  and  also  why  the  closing  lines  of  each 
stanza  are  in  substance  repeated  at  the  com 
mencement  of  that  which  immediately  suc 
ceeds. 


28  Drift-Wood 

In  the  poem  of  Gerars  de  Nevers  I  find  the 
following  curious  passage.  Gerars,  betrayed 
by  his  mistress  and  stripped  of  his  earldom  of 
Nevers  by  the  Duke  of  Metz,  determines  to 
revisit  his  ancient  domains.  To  avoid  detec 
tion  and  arrest,  he  is  obliged  to  assume  the 
guise  of  a  minstrel. 

"  Then  Gerars  donned  a  garment  old, 
And  round  his  neck  a  viol  hung, 

For  cunningly  he  played  and  sung 

Steed  he  had  none  ;  so  he  was  fain 
To  trudge  on  foot  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
Till  Nevers'  gate  he  stood  before. 
There  merry  burghers  full  a  score, 
.  Staring,  exclaimed  in  pleasant  mood  : 
'  This  minstrel  cometh  for  little  good  ; 
I  ween,  if  he  singeth  all  day  long, 
No  one  will  listen  to  his  song. '  " 

In  spite  of  these  unfavorable  prognostics, 
Gerars  presents  himself  before  the  castle  oi 
the  Duke  of  Metz. 

"  Whilst  at  the  door  he  thus  did  wait, 
A  knight  came  through  the  courtyard  gate, 
Who  bade  the  minstrel  enter  straight, 
And  led  him  to  the  crowded  hall, 
That  he  might  play  before  them  all. 
The  minstrel  then  full  soon  began, 
In  gesture  like  an  aged  man, 
But  with  clear  voice  and  music  gay, 
The  song  of  Guillaume  au  Cornez. 


Ancient  French  Romances          29 

Great  was  the  court  in  the  hall  of  Loon, 
The  tables  were  full  of  fowl  and  venison, 
On  flesh  and  fish  they  feasted  every  one  ; 
But  Guillaume  of  these  viands  tasted  none, 
Brown  crusts  ate  he,  and  water  drank  alone. 
When  had  feasted  every  noble  baron, 
The  cloths  were  removed  by  squire  and  scullion. 
Count  Guillaume  then  with  the  king  did  thus  reason  : 
'  What  thinketh  now,  '  quoth  he,  '  the  gallant  Charlon?* 
Will  he  aid  me  against  the  prowess  of  Mahon  ? ' 
Quoth  Loeis,  '  We  will  take  counsel  thereon, 
To-morrow  in  the  morning  shalt  thou  conne, 
If  aught  by  us  in  this  matter  can  be  done.' 
Guillaume  heard  this,  —  black  was  he  as  carbon, 
He  louted  low,  and  seized  a  baton, 
And  said  to  the  king,  '  Of  your  fief  will  I  none, 
I  will  not  keep  so  much  as  a  spur's  iron  ; 
Your  friend  and  vassal  I  cease  to  be  anon  ; 
But  come  you  shall,  whether  you  will  or  non.' 
Thus  full  four  verses  sang  the  knight, 
For  their  great  solace  and  delight." 

Observe  the  expression  "full  four  verses," 
which  very  evidently  means  four  stanzas  or 
couplets. 

Thus,  then,  we  may  consider  the  fact  as  well 
established,  that  the  old  romances  were  sung  ; 
and  that  hence  there  was  a  good  reason  for  di 
viding  them  into  monorhyme  stanzas. 

And  thus,  too,  we  discover  the  reason  why 

*  Charlemagne. 


30  Drift-  Wood 

these  romances  were  called  chansons,  or  songs, 
and  why  they  generally  commenced  with  some 
such  expressions  as  the  following  :  — 

"  Good  song,  my  lords,  will  it  please  you  to  hear  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Listen,  lordlings,  to  a  merry  song  ..." 

"  Historic  song,  and  of  marvellous  renown  ..." 

We  shall  no  longer  look  for  the  famous 
Chanson  de  Roland  or  de  Roncevaux  in  some 
forgotten  page  of  our  ancient  manuscripts  ; 
nor  shall  we  longer  insist  upon  its  having  the 
brevity,  the  form,  and  even  the  accustomed 
burden  of  the  modern  ballad.  We  shall  now 
be  content  with  a  reference  to  the  manu 
scripts  entitled  Li  Romans,  or  La  Chansons  de 
Roncevals,  which  can  be  easily  found  in  the 
Royal  Library;  —  and  after  having  read  them, 
we  shall  no  longer  believe  that  this  precious 
monument  of  our  national  traditions  and  liter 
ature  has  forever  perished. 

It  is  because  we  have  not  already  done  this, 
that  we  have  always  interpreted  so  incorrectly 
the  passage  in  the  romance  of  the  Brut*  where 

*  The  original  of  this  romance  was  an  ancient  chronicle 
entitled  Bruty  Brenhined,  or  Brutus  of  Brittany,  written  in  the 
old  Armoric  dialect,  and  first  brought  into  England  at  the 
commencement  of  the  twelfth  century  by  Walter  or  Gualter, 
Archdeacon  of  Oxford.  It  was  given  by  him  to  Geoffrey  o> 


Ancient  French  Romances          31 

the  author,  after  enumerating  the  army  of  Wil 
liam  the  Conqueror,  adds  :  — 

"  Taillefer,  who  sung  full  well,  I  wot, 
Mounted  on  steed  that  was  swift  of  foot, 
Went  forth  before  the  armed  train 
Singing  of  Roland  and  Charlemain, 
Of  Oliver  and  the  brave  vassals, 
Who  died  at  the  pass  of  Roncesvals. " 

Monmouth,  a  Benedictine  monk,  who  translated  it  into  Latin 
prose.  Afterwards,  by  the  order  of  Henry  II.  of  England,  it 
was  translated  into  French  verse  by  Robert  Wace,  under  the 
title  of  Le  Brut  d ' 'Engleterre.  From  this  romance  originated 
the  Romances  of  King  Arthur  and  the  Round  Table.  The 
following  quaint  notice  of  this  old  chronicle  is  from  the  pen  of 
an  English  writer  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

"  Among  our  owne  ancient  chronicles,  John  of  Wetham- 
sted,  Abbot  of  S.  Alban,  holdeth  the  whole  narration  of  Brute 
to  be  rather  poeticall,  than  historicall,  which  me  thinkes,  is 

agreable  to  reason The  first  that  ever  broached  it 

was  Geffry  of  Monmoth  aboute  foure  hundred  yeares  agoe, 
during  the  raigne  of  Henry  the  Second,  who,  publishing  the 
Brittish  story  in  Latine,  pretended  to  have  taken  it  out  of 
ancient  monuments  written  in  the  Brittish  tongue  :  but  this 
booke,  as  soone  as  it  peeped  forth  into  the  light,  was  sharply 
censured  both  by  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  and  William  of  New- 
berry  who  lived  at  the  same  time,  the  former  tearming  it  no 
better  than  Fabulosam  histortam,  a  fabulous  history,  and  the 
latter,  Ridicule  figmenta,  ridiculous  fictions,  and  it  now  stands 
branded  with  a  blacke  cole  among  the  bookes  prohibited  by 
the  Church  of  Rome."  — An  Apologie  of  the  Power  and 
Providence  of  God  in  the  Government  of  the  World,  p.  8. 
TR. 


32  Drift-Wood 

We  formerly  thought,  with  the  Due  de 
la  Valliere,  that  some  short  ballad  was  here 
spoken  of;  and  M.  de  Chateaubriand  was  the 
first  to  suspect  the  truth,  when  he  said,  "This 
ballad  must  still  exist  somewhere  in  the  ro 
mance  of  Oliver,  which  was  formerly  preserved 
in  the  Royal  Library."  The  whole  truth  is 
that  the  Chanson  de  Roncevaux  exists  nowhere 
but  in  the  Chanson  de  Roncevaux. 

Hitherto,  by  way  of  excuse  for  not  reading 
these  old  romances,  it  has  been  fashionable  to 
load  them  with  all  kinds  of  censure.  It  may 
not  be  amiss  to  examine  some  of  the  charges 
brought  against  them. 

It  has  been  said  that  they  contain  nothing 
but  ridiculous  and  incredible  adventures  ;  that 
these  adventures  are  all  founded  upon  a  pre 
tended  journey  of  Charlemagne  to  Jerusalem  ; 
and  that  they  are  a  copy  or  a  paraphrase  of 
that  absurd  and  insipid  history  of  Charle^ 
magne  attributed  to  the  Archbishop  Turpin. 
Consequently  their  date  is  fixed  no  earlier 
than  the  close  of  the  twelfth  or  the  com 
mencement  of  the  thirteenth  century.  But 
these  opinions  will  not  bear  a  very  rigid  scru 
tiny. 

Those  who  urge  the    improbability  of  the 


Ancient  French  Romances         33 

adventures  contained  in  these  writings,  con 
found  together  two  classes  of  works,  which 
have  no  kind  of  connection,  —  that  is  to  say, 
the  old  traditions  of  Brittany,  and  the  ancient 
heroic  ballads  of  France.  The  former,  indeed, 
founded  upon  the  marvels  of  the  Saint  Graal* 
contain  nothing  but  strange  and  miraculous 
adventures ;  but  the  Romances  of  the  Twelve 
Peers  contain  a  continued  narrative,  the  more 
probable  in  its  detail,  inasmuch  as  these  ro 
mances  belong  to  a  period  of  greater  antiqui 
ty.  The  impossible  forms  no  part  of  their 
plan,  and  Lucan  is  not  more  sparing  of  the 
marvellous  than  the  first  poets  who  sang  the 
praises  of  Roland  and  Guillaume  an  Comes. 
Nay,  if  any  one  should  compare  the  details  of 
the  lives  of  our  ancient  kings,  as  they  are  de 
scribed  in  the  Chronicle  of  Saint-Denis,  and 
in  our  oldest  romances,  he  would  soon  be  per- 

*  The  Saint  Graal  was  the  dish  in  which  Joseph  of 
Arimathea  is  said  to  have  caught  the  blood  which  flowed 
from  the  Saviour's  wounds,  when  he  embalmed  the  body. 
According  to  the  traditions  of  old  romance,  he  afterwards 
carried  it  to  Great  Britain,  where  he  made  use  of  it  in  con 
verting  the  inhabitants  to  Christianity,  —  or,  as  it  is  expressed 
in  the  Romance  of  Tristan,  ''''pour  la  terre  susdite  peupler 
de  bonne  gent.'1''  It  figures  in  all  the  romances  of  the  Round 
Table.  TR. 


34  Drift- Wood 

suaded  that  the  latter  have  incontestably  the 
advantage  in  point  of  probability. 

The  second  charge  is  equally  ill-founded. 
I  am  well  aware,  that  the  antiquarians  of  the 
last  century  discovered  a  legend  describing  the 
journey  of  Charlemagne  to  the  Holy  Land  ;  I 
am  equally  well  aware,  that  in  addition  to  this 
there  exists  a  very  ancient  romance,  whose 
subject  is  the  conquest  of  a  part  of  the  Gre 
cian  empire  by  Charlemagne,  and  his  pilgrim 
age  to  Jerusalem.  But  it  is  very  unfair  to 
conclude  from  this,  that  all  the  romances  of 
the  Twelve  Peers  have  the  same  chimerical 
foundation  ;  for  the  only  one  which  treats  of 
the  war  in  the  East  was  first  discovered  by 
the  Abb6  de  la  Rue,  not  in  France,  but  in  the 
British  Museum.  With  regard  to  the  other 
monorhythmic  romances,  far  from  being  found 
ed  on  the  same  event,  the  greater  part  of  them 
do  not  even  belong  to  the  age  of  Charlemagne. 
Thus,  Gerars  de  Rotissillon,  of  which  nothing 
now  remains  but  an  imitation  of  a  later  date, 
records  the  wars  of  Charles  Martel ;  Garin  le 
Loherain,  Girbert,  and  Berte  aus  Grans  Pi/s 
embrace  the  reign  of  P6pin-le-Bref ;  Raoul  de 
Cambray,  Guillaume  au  Cornez,  Gerars  de  Ne- 
vers,  transport  us  to  the  days  of  Louis-le-De"- 


Ancient  French  Romances         35 

bonnaire  ;  and  others  refer  back  to  the  age  of 
Charles-le-Chauve.  Of  the  poems  which  em 
brace  the  age  of  Charlemagne,  the  most  an 
cient  and  authentic  are  the  following :  Agolant, 
or  the  expulsion  of  the  Saracens  from  Italy  ; 
—  Jean  de  Lanson,  or  the  Lombard  war  ;  — 
Guiteclin  de  Sassoigne,  or  the  wars  of  Saxony 
against  Witikind  ;  —  Les  Quatre  Fils  Aymon 
and  Girard  de  Vianne,  or  the  wars  of  Au- 
vergne  and  Dauphiny ;  and  Ogicr  le  Danois 
and  Roncevaux,  or  the  expedition  to  Spain. 
In  all  these  there  is  not  one  word  about  Jeru 
salem,  —  not  even  so  much  as  an  allusion  to 
that  chimerical  pilgrimage.  We  must  not, 
then,  condemn  these  romances,  because  "  they 
are  all  founded  on  the  pretended  journey  of 
Charlemagne  to  Jerusalem." 

I  now  come  to  the  last  charge.  And  are 
the  "  Romances  of  the  Twelve  Peers  "  a  para 
phrase  of  the  chronicle  of  Turpin,  and  conse 
quently  of  a  later  date  than  this  chronicle  ? 

All  your  friends  are  well  aware  that  you 
have  been  long  engaged  in  preparing  a  val 
uable  edition  of  the  work  of  the  Archbishop 
of  Rheims.  You  have  consulted  the  various 
manuscripts,  and  the  numerous  translations  of 
this  work  ;  you  have  compared  the  most  cor- 


36  Drift- Wood 

rect  texts  and  the  most  ancient  readings.  It 
is  then  for  you  to  decide,  whether  our  ancient 
poems,  being  only  an  imitation  of  this  chroni 
cle,  are  to  be  dated  no  farther  back  than  the 
thirteenth,  or,  at  farthest,  than  the  twelfth  cen 
tury.  And  if  I  venture  to  offer  you,  in  antici 
pation  of  your  judgment,  my  own  imperfect 
views  upon  this  subject,  I  am  urged  to  this 
step  by  the  conviction,  that  my  researches, 
though  far  less  enlightened  than  your  own, 
will  notwithstanding  coincide  with  them. 

The  author  of  this  chronicle,  whoever  he 
may  be,  is  very  far  from  having  made  good 
the  title  of  his  work,  —  De  Vitd  et  Gestis  Caroli 
Magni.  With  the  exception  of  a  few  sen 
tences  which  are  bestowed  upon  the  first  ex 
ploits  and  upon  the  death  of  Charlemagne, 
the  whole  work  is  taken  up  in  describing  the 
crusade  against  the  Saracens  of  Spain,  and 
the  defeat  of  the  French  rear-guard  near  Ron- 
cesvalles.  According  to  the  chronicler,  the 
true  motive  of  this  expedition  was  a  dream, 
in  which  Saint  James  commanded  the  Em 
peror  to  go  and  rescue  his  precious  relics  from 
the  hands  of  the  Saracens.  In  return  for  this, 
the  Saint  promised  him  victory  on  earth  and 
paradise  in  heaven.  The  first  care  of  Charle- 


Ancient  French  Romances         37 

magne  was,  therefore,  to  build  churches  to 
Saint  James,  and  to  honor  his  relics.  Not 
withstanding  all  this,  his  rear-guard,  as  every 
body  knows,  was  cut  to  pieces  ;  but  this, 
according  to  the  same  chronicler,  was  the 
fault  of  the  French  themselves,  who  were  en 
ticed  from  their  duty  by  the  allurements  of 
the  Moorish  maidens.  At  all  events,  he  de 
clares  that  Charlemagne  would  have  been 
damned  after  death,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
great  number  of  churches  which  he  built  or 
endowed. 

This  brief  analysis  of  the  famous  chronicle 
affords  us  a  glimpse  of  its  design.  The  au 
thor  was,  without  doubt,  a  monk  ;  and  Geof 
frey,  Prior  of  Saint-Andre"-de-Vienne,  who  first 
brought  it  from  Spain,  was  living  in  the  year 
1092.  Until  that  time,  the  very  existence  of 
that  legend  was  unknown  in  France ;  and 
there  can  be  little  doubt,  that  even  the  pro 
tection  of  the  monk  of  Dauphiny  would  not 
have  rescued  it  from  the  obscurity  into  which 
all  the  pious  frauds  of  the  same  kind  have  so 
justly  fallen,  had  it  not  been  for  the  infallible 
recommendation,  which  Pope  Calixtus  II.,  for 
merly  Archbishop  of  Vienne,  let  fall  upon  it 
from  the  height  of  his  pontifical  throne.  But 


38  Drift-Wood 

after  all,  the  Holy  Father  never  declared  that 
this  chronicle  gave  birth  to  the  old  French  ro 
mances  ;  and  we  may  therefore,  with  all  due 
respect  to  his  decision,  maintain  that  .the  great 
er  part  of  these  romances  are  anterior  in  date 
to  the  chronicle. 

Indeed,  who  does  not  perceive,  that,  if  free 
scope  had  been  given  to  the  pious  chronicler, 
—  if  he  had  not  been  restrained  by  the  neces 
sity  of  adapting  his  work  to  the  exigency  of 
traditions  generally  adopted,  —  he  would  have 
omitted  the  defeat  at  Roncesvalles,  which  so 
unfortunately  deranges  the  promises  made  to 
Charlemagne  by  Monseigneur  Saint  Jacques  ? 

But  there  are  other  proofs  even  more  incon 
testable  than  these.  In  the  epistle  which  the 
Prior  of  Vienne  wrote  to  the  clergy  of  Limoges 
when  he  sent  them  the  chronicle  of  Turpin,  he 
observes  that  he  had  been  the  more  anxious  to 
procure  the  work  from  Spain,  because  that,  pre 
vious  to  that  time,  the  expedition  of  Charle 
magne  was  known  in  France  by  the  songs  of 
the  Troubadours  only.  It  would  seem,  then, 
that  these  Troubadours,  or  Jongleurs,  did  not 
wait  for  the  inspiration  of  the  Spanish  legend 
in  order  to  enable  them  to  celebrate  the  ex 
ploits  of  Roland,  and  to  sing  the  sad  but  glo 
rious  day  of  Roncesvalles. 


Ancient  French  Romances          39 

In  the  course  of  this  miserable  monkish 
chronicle,  the  fictitious  Turpin  happens  to 
name  the  principal  leaders  of  the  army  of 
Charlemagne.  In  doing  this  he  confounds, 
with  the  most  singular  ignorance,  the  poetic 
heroes  of  different  generations;  as,  for  exam 
ple,  Garin  le  Loherain  and  Oliver,  the  former 
of  whom  lived  at  the  commencement  of  the 
reign  of  Pe"pin,  and  the  latter  in  the  last  years 
of  l^ie  reign  of  Charlemagne.  On  the  same 
occasion  he  speaks  of  the  valiant  Ogier  le  Da- 
nois,  who,  says  he,  did  such  marvels  "  that  his 
praise  is  sung  in  ballads  even  down  to  the 
present  day."  The  Chansons  of  Roland  and  of 
Ogier,  which  are  still  preserved,  are  not,  then, 
mere  imitations  of  the  legend  of  Turpin. 

I  feel  that  all  further  proof  would  be  super 
fluous.  Still,  I  cannot  refrain  from  mention 
ing  the  fact,  that  this  Turpin,  whom  the  forger 
of  these  writings  has  transformed  into  an  his 
torian,  far  from  being  cited  in  the  Chanson  de 
Roland  as  the  guarantee  of  the  circumstances 
accompanying  the  death  of  this  Paladin,  ex 
pires  covered  with  wounds  some  time  before 
the  death  of  Roland.  But  in  the  chronicle, 
which  was  made  for  and  by  the  monks,  and 
with  the  simple  design  of  exciting  the  zeal  of 


40  Drift-Wood 

the  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  of  Saint  James,  Tur- 
pin  appears  only  in  order  to  confess  the  dying, 
and  afterwards  to  carry  to  Charlemagne  the 
story  of  the  disastrous  defeat.  Surely,  if  the 
poets  had  followed  this  chronicle,  and  had 
taken  it,  as  has  been  pretended,  for  the  foun 
dation  of  their  poems,  they  would  have  rep 
resented  the  good  Archbishop  in  the  same 
manner  in  which  he  has  represented  himself. 
And  if  his  testimony  had  been  of  any  impor 
tance  in  their  opinion,  as  it  was  in  that  of  all 
the  annalists  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  cen 
turies,  they  surely  would  not  have  begun  by 
entirely  overthrowing  the  authority  of  this  tes 
timony. 

The  following  is  the  description  given  in  the 
famous  Chanson  de  Roland  of  the  death  of  Tur- 
pin.  I  have  praised  these  ancient  poems  so 
highly,  that  I  might  be  accused  of  prejudice  in 
their  favor,  if  I  brought  forward  no  quotations 
to  sustain  my  opinion. 

"  The  Archbishop,  whom  God  loved  in  high  degree, 
Beheld  his  wounds  all  bleeding  fresh  and  free  ; 
And  then  his  cheek  more  ghastly  grew  and  wan, 
And  a  faint  shudder  through  his  members  ran. 
Upon  the  battle-field  his  knee  was  bent ; 
Brave  Roland  saw,  and  to  his  succor  went, 
Straightway  his  helmet  from  his  brow  unlaced, 
And  tore  the  shining  hauberk  from  his  breast 


Ancient  French  Romances         41 

Then  raising  in  his  arms  the  man  of  God, 

Gently  he  laid  him  on  the  verdant  sod. 

'  Rest,  Sire,'  he  cried,  —  '  for  rest  thy  suffering  needs.' 

The  priest  replied,  '  Think  but  of  warlike  deeds  1 

The  field  is  ours  ;  well  may  we  boast  this  strife  ! 

But  death  steals  on,  —  there  is  no  hope  of  life ; 

In  paradise,  where  Almoners  live  again, 

There  are  our  couches  spread,  there  shall  we  rest  from  pain.' 

Sore  Roland  grieved  ;  nor  marvel  I,  alas  ! 
That  thrice  he  swooned  upon  the  thick  green  grass. 
When  he  revived,  with  a  loud  voice  cried  he, 
'  O  Heavenly  Father  !     Holy  Saint  Marie  ! 
Why  lingers  death  to  lay  me  in  my  grave  ! 
Beloved  France  !  how  have  the  good  and  brave 
Been  torn  from  thee,  and  left  thee  weak  and  poor  ! ' 
Then  thoughts  of  Aude,  his  lady-love,  came  o'er 
His  spirit,  and  he  whispered  soft  and  slow, 
'  My  gentle  friend  !  —  what  parting  full  of  woe  ! 
Never  so  true  a  liegeman  shalt  thou  see  ;  — 
Whate'er  my  fate,  Christ's  benison  on  thee  ! 
Christ,  who  did  save  from  realms  of  woe  beneath, 
The  Hebrew  Prophets  from  the  second  death.' 
Then  to  the  Paladins,  whom  well  he  knew, 
He  went,  and  one  by  one  unaided  drew 
To  Turpin's  side,  well  skilled  in  ghostly  lore  ;  — 
No  heart  had  he  to  smile,  —  but,  weeping  sore, 
He  blessed  them  in  God's  name,  with  faith  that  he 
Would  soon  vouchsafe  to  them  a  glad  eternity. 

;  The  Archbishop,  then,  on  whom  God's  benison  rest, 
Exhausted,  bowed  his  head  upon  his  breast ;  — 
His  mouth  was  full  of  dust  and  clotted  gore, 
And  many  a  wound  his  swollen  visage  bore. 


42  Drift-  Wood 

Slow  beats  his  heart,  —  his  panting  bosom  heaves,  — 
Death  comes  apace,  —  no  hope  of  cure  relieves. 
Towards  heaven  he  raised  his  dying  hands,  and  prayed 
That  God,  who  for  our  sins  was  mortal  made, 
Born  of  the  Virgin,  —  scorned  and  crucified,  — 
In  paradise  would  place  him  by  his  side. 

"  Then  Turpin  died  in  service  of  Charlon, 
In  battle  great  and  eke  great  orison  ;  — 
'Gainst  Pagan  host  alway  strong  champion  ;  — 
God  grant  to  him  his  holy  benison. "  * 

One  question  more  remains  to  be  touched 
upon.  To  what  century  do  these  historic 
songs,  or  Romances  of  the  Twelve  Peers,  be 
long  ?  Some  have  been  so  sceptical  in  regard 
to  their  antiquity  as  to  fix  their  date  as  late  as 
the  thirteenth  century;  —  let  us  not  fall  into 
the  opposite  extreme,  by  referring  them  back 
to  so  early  a  period  as  that  in  which  occurred 
the  events  they  celebrate.  But  this  discussion 
would  demand  a  more  profound  erudition,  and 
a  more  experienced  judgment,  than  I  can 
bring  to  the  task;  —  and  above  all  a  more 
extended  view  of  the  whole  ground  of  contro- 

*  The  stanzas  of  this  extract,  like  those  of  the  extract  from 
Gerard  de  Nevers,  are  monorhythmic.  This  peculiarity  it  was 
not  thought  necessary  to  preserve  in  the  translation,  as  the 
preceding  extract  will  serve  as  an  example  of  that  kind  ol 
verse.  TR. 


Ancient  French  Romances          43 

versy  than  my  present  limits  allow.  Nor  shall 
I  ever  undertake  this  task,  unless  more  skil 
ful  critics  should  be  backward  in  maintaining 
the  good  cause  ;  a  supposition  which  is  by  no 
means  probable,  for  on  all  sides  a  taste,  nay  a 
passion,  for  these  earliest  monuments  of  mod 
ern  literature  is  springing  up.  Even  before  a 
professorship  has  been  endowed  in  the  College 
de  France,  for  the  purpose  of  thoroughly  investi 
gating  the  early  stages  of  the  French  language, 
the  public  welcomes  with  avidity  whatever  is 
thus  dug  up  from  the  fruitful  soil  of  our  an 
cient  country.  The  mine  is  hardly  open  ;  — 
and  yet  every  day  we  hear  of  the  publication 
of  some  old  manuscript  before  unknown.  Im 
mediately  subsequent  to  the  publication  of  Le 
Roman  de  Renard,  appeared  under  your  own 
auspices  our  earliest  comic  opera,  Le  Jeu  de 
Robin  et  Marion,  and  our  earliest  drama,  Le  Jeu 
d'  Adam  le  Bossu  d' Arras.  M.  de  Roquefort 
has  presented,  as  his  offering,  the  poems  of 
Marie  de  France ;  and  M.  Crapelet,  the  agree 
able  romance  of  Le  Chdtelain  de  Coucy.  M.  F. 
Michel,  not  satisfied  with  having  published  the 
romance  of  Le  Comte  de  Poitiers,  is  about  bring 
ing  forward,  with  the  assistance  of  an  able  Ori 
entalist,  a  poem  entitled  Mahomet,  which  will 


44  Drift-  Wood 

show  us  in  what  light  the  religion  and  the  per 
son  of  the  Arab  lawgiver  were  regarded  in  the 
East  during  the  thirteenth  century.  M.  Bour- 
dillon,  who  has  long  felt  all  the  historic  and 
literary  importance  of  the  Chanson  de  Ronce- 
vaux,  is  now  occupied  in  preparing  an  edition 
for  the  press  ;  and  M.  Robert,  already  favora 
bly  known  by  his  work  upon  La  Fontaine,  will 
soon  publish  an  edition  of  the  fine  old  romance 
of  Partenopex  de  Blots.  Meanwhile  the  cele 
brated  M.  Raynouard  is  about  completing  his 
Glossaire  des  Langues  Vulgaires ;  and  the  Abbe* 
de  la  Rue  is  superintending  the  publication  of 
a  large  work  on  les  Bardes,  les  Jongleurs,  et  les 
Trouveres.  Thus  the  knowledge  of  our  ancient 
literature  develops  itself  more  and  more  daily  ; 
and  thus  will  arise,  if  indeed  it  has  not  already 
arisen,  a  sober  and  enlightened  judgment  con 
cerning  the  productions  of  the  human  mind, 
during  that  long  period,  bounded  on  one  side 
by  antiquity  and  on  the  other  by  the  sixteenth 
century,  the  epoch  of  the  revival  of  the  arts 
and  sciences. 

The  author  of  the  romance  of  Berte  aus 
Grans  Pi/s  flourished  about  the  close  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  His  name  was  Adans  or 
Adenes,  according  to  the  general  custom  of 


Ancient  French  Romances          45 

designating  an  individual  indifferently  by  his 
patronymic  name  or  by  its  diminutive.  The 
greater  part  of  the  manuscripts  give  him  the 
surname  of  Roi,  or  King  ;  and  M.  Roquefort 
thinks  that  it  was  bestowed  upon  him  because 
one  of  his  poems  bore  off  the  palm  at  a  puy 
d' amour,  or  Court  of  Love ;  *  whilst  the  learned 
authors  of  the  Histoire  Littifraire  de  la  France 
suppose  that  Adenes  was  indebted  for  this  title 
to  the  justice  of  his  contemporaries  and  to  the 
superiority  of  his  poetic  talent.  I  shall  hazard 
an  opinion  of  my  own,  which  does  not  conform 
to  either  of  these.  We  are  acquainted  with 
several  Trouveres,  whose  works  obtained  prizes 
in  the  Puys  of  Valenciennes  or  Cambray ;  — 
they  all  took  the  surname  of  couronnf,  and  not 
that  of  roi. 

But  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries 
there  was  a  King  of  the  Minstrels  (Roi  des 
Mcnestrels).  This  pacific  sovereign  had  the 

*  The  puys  d"1  amour  were  assemblies  in  which  questions  of 
love  and  gallantry  were  discussed  in  poetry.  The  name  of 
pity  comes  from  the  low  Latin  podium, "  balcony  "  or  "stage," 
as  the  poets  on  these  occasions  recited  their  verses  from  an 
elevated  place.  For  an  account  of  these  Puys  or  Cours 
d' Amour,  see  Roquefort,  De  la  Poesie  Franfoise,  p.  93.  — 
Raynouard,  Choix  de  Pohies  des  Troubadours,  Tom.  II.  p.  79 
et  seq.  TR. 


46  Drift-Wood 

direction  of  the  Jongleurs  or  Troubadours  of 
the  court,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
his  duties  bore  no  inconsiderable  resemblance 
to  those  of  a  modern  leader  of  an  orchestra. 
To  him  people  addressed  themselves,  when 
they  wanted  a  good  singer,  a  good  lute-player, 
or  a  good  harper  ;  and  the  King  of  the  Min 
strels,  as  the  most  skilful  of  all,  directed  and 
animated  the  concert  by  voice  and  gesture. 
Such  were  probably  the  prerogatives  and  func 
tions  of  le  Rot  Adents. 

However  this  may  be,  —  and  although  no 
one  can  doubt,  on  running  over  the  names  of 
his  numerous  and  illustrious  protectors,  that 
Adenes  enjoyed  a  high  reputation  as  Trouvere 
and  minstrel,  —  yet  I  do  not  find  that  any  con 
temporary  writer  makes  mention  of  him.  It  is 
true,  that  in  one  of  the  copies  of  the  fables  of 
Marie  de  France,  this  poetess  designates  le  Roi 
Adans  as  the  author  of  the  first  English  trans 
lation  of  the  fables  of  Esop  :  — 

"Esop  call  we  this  book; 
King  Adans  did  highly  rate  it, 
And  into  English  did  translate  it." 

But  this  copy  deceived  the  learned  author  of 
the  catalogue  of  the  La  Valliere  manuscripts. 
All  other  copies  of  Marie  de  France  read  Li 


Ancient  French  Romances          47 

rots  Henrys,  instead  of  Li  rois  Adans.  At  all 
events,  as  many  of  the  manuscripts  of  Marie  de 
France  belong  to  the  commencement  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  it  is  evident  that  they  can 
make  no  mention  of  the  works  of  Adenes,  who 
did  not  flourish  till  near  its  close. 

It  is,  then,  to  the  writings  of  Adenes,  and 
particularly  to  his  romance  of  Cleomadh,  that 
we  must  look  for  information  respecting  the 
time  in  which  he  flourished,  and  for  some  cir 
cumstances  of  his  life. 

Adenes  was  born  in  the  duchy  of  Brabant 
about  1240.  He  doubtless  exhibited,  at  an 
early  age,  a  remarkable  talent  for  poetry  ;  for 
Henry  III.,  then  Duke  of  Brabant,  the  warm 
friend  of  poets  and  yet  a  poet  himself,  had  him 
educated  with  care,  and  afterward  chose  him 
for  his  minstrel.  It  is  very  possible  that  the 
pretty  songs  of  Henry  III.,  which  are  still  pre 
served  in  the  Royal  Library,  were  submitted 
to  the  correction  of  the  young  Adenes,  before 
they  were  sung  in  public.  Nearly  all  the 
princes  of  the  thirteenth  century  give  proofs 
of  great  talent,  and  sometimes  of  true  poetic 
genius.  But  perhaps  their  highest,  their  most 
indisputable  merit  was  mainly  owing  to  the 
choice  of  their  minstrels.  Thus,  Blondel  was 


48  Drift-Wood 

distinguished  by  the  patronage  of  Richard 
Coeur-de-Lion,  and  Gaces  Brules  by  that  of 
the  king  of  Navarre  ;  Charles  d'Anjou,  king  of 
Naples,  was  accompanied  by  the  Bossu  d' Ar 
ras,  and  we  have  seen  that  Adenes  had  mer 
ited  the  good  graces  of  the  Duke  of  Brabant. 

"  Minstrel  was  I  to  the  good  Duke  Henry  ; 

He  it  was  that  brought  me  up  and  nourished  me, 
And  made  me  learn  the  art  of  minstrelsy. " 

Henry  died  in  1260,  regretted  by  his  sub 
jects,  and  above  all  by  the  poets,  whose  labors 
he  liberally  rewarded.  Adenes,  who,  after  the 
death  of  his  benefactor,  took  every  opportunity 
of  praising  his  virtues,  soon  gained  the  affec 
tion  of  the  Duke's  children.  Jean  and  Guyon 
preserved  the  poet  from  the  ills  of  penury, 
and  when  Marie  de  Brabant  became  queen 
of  France,  she  took  him  with  her  to  Paris. 
There,  in  his  double  capacity  of  poet  and  cour 
tier,  he  was  honored  with  the  most  marked 
distinction.  In  those  days,  poets  were  per 
mitted  to  eulogize  the  great,  and  to  celebrate 
their  numerous  virtues.  In  doing  this  Adenes 
had  no  peer ;  but  whilst  he  rendered  due  hom 
age  to  those  whom  fortune  surrounded  with 
all  the  splendor  of  power,  he  listened  also  to 
the  natural  promptings  of  his  heart,  and  both 


Ancient  French  Romances         49 

respected  and  cherished  all  self-acquired  re 
nown.  He  somewhere  says  in  Buevon  de  Co- 
marchis : 

"  If  it  please  God  and  his  saints,  through  all  my  earthly  days, 
Of  good  men  and  of  valiant,  I  will  gladly  speak  in  praise  ; 
What  good  I  hear  of  them,  I  will  record  it  in  my  lays, 
If  aught  I  hear  that 's  ill,  I  will  hold  my  peace  always. " 

The  precise  date  of  the  death  of  Adenes  is 
unknown.  The  last  poem  to  which  he  has 
prefixed  his  name  is  Cleomadh,  whose  story 
transports  us  back  to  the  reign  of  Diocletian. 
This  is  the  longest  of  the  author's  poems,  and 
contains  no  less  than  nineteen  thousand  octo 
syllabic  lines.  The  principal  narrative  is  of 
ten  interrupted  by  agreeable  episodes,  such  as 
the  history  of  the  miraculous  deeds  of  the 
poet  Virgil,  "  the  greatest  magician  of  Rome." 
Among  other  marvels,  which  unfortunately 
time  hath  put  into  his  wallet  as  "alms  for 
oblivion,"  Adenes  mentions  the  baths  of  Poz- 
zuoli.  On  each  of  these  Virgil  had  inscribed 
the  name  of  that  disease  which  was  instantly 
cured  by  the  virtue  of  its  waters. 

"But  the  Physicians  every  one, 
Who  much  ill  and  much  good  have  done, 
All  of  these  writings  did  decry  ;  — 
For  nothing  could  they  gain  thereby. 


50  Drift -Wood 

And  if  those  baths  existed  now, 

They  'd  like  them  little  enough,  I  trow." 

A  great  number  of  copies  of  Ctiomadh  are 
still  extant,  —  some  of  them  under  the  title  of 
Cheval  de  Fust.  This  cheval  defust,  or  wooden 
horse,  takes  a  very  active  part  in  the  romance. 
He  traversed  the  air,  you  know,  with  incon 
ceivable  rapidity,  and  was  guided  in  his  course 
by  turning  a  peg,  which  is  sufficient  to  prove 
that  this  famous  courser  is  the  type  of  the 
horse  on  which  Pierre  de  Provence  carried 
away  the  fair  Maguelonne,  and  which,  at  a 
later  period,  under  the  name  of  Clavileno,  bore 
the  divine  Sancho  so  high  in  air  as  to  make 
him  confound  the  earth  with  a  grain  of  mus 
tard-seed,  and  its  inhabitants  with  filberts. 

Cteomadh  was  written  at  the  joint  request 
of  Marie  de  Brabant  and  Blanche  de  France, 
who  was  married  in  1269  to  the  Infante  of 
Castile.  The  names  of  these  two  princesses 
determine  very  nearly  the  date  of  its  composi 
tion.  Marie  de  Brabant  was  married  in  1 274 
to  Philippe-le-Hardi  ;  and  Blanche,  on  the 
death  of  her  husband,  returned  to  France  in 
1275.  Ctiomadh  must,  therefore,  have  been 
written  between  1275  and  1283,  the  year  in 
which  Philippe-le-Hardi  died. 


Ancient  French  Romances          51 

I  have  one  word  more  to  say  of  this  ro 
mance.  It  thus  commences  :  — 

"  He  who  did  write  Ogier  the  Dane, 
And  She  of  the  wood,  yclept  Bertaine, 
And  Buevon  of  Comarchis  make, 
Another  book  doth  undertake. " 

These  three  romances  are  still  preserved  in 
the  Royal  Library,  all  of  them  complete,  ex 
cept  Buevon  de  Comarchis,  of  which  the  first 
part  only  remains.  Buevon  de  Comarchis  is  a 
kind  of  appendage  to  the  old  romances  which 
immortalize  the  family  of  Guillaume  an  Cor- 
tie's ;  in  the  same  manner  that  the  Enfances 
Ogier  are  the  sequel  of  the  romances  of  Ogier. 
It  has  been  often  supposed,  that  Adenes  was 
the  author  of  all  the  poems  of  Guillaume  au 
Comes,  and  also  of  Ogier  le  Danois  ;  but  this 
is  an  error  ;  for  the  origin  of  the  greater  part 
of  these  romances  can  be  traced  back  to  the 
very  cradle  of  French  poetry,  —  to  a  period 
far  beyond  the  thirteenth  century.  ' 

Adenes,  on  the  contrary,  is  one  of  the  last 
poets,  who  sang,  in  monorhythmic  verse,  the 
traditions  of  our  fabulous  and  heroic  ages. 
His  versification  is  pure  and  correct  ;  but  it 
may  be  said,  that  the  subject  of  his  narratives 
is  the  less  poetic  in  proportion  as  his  style  is 
the  more  so. 


52  Drift -Wood 

But  this  letter  is  already  a  thousand  times 
too  long  ;  and  I  therefore  close  these  desultory 
remarks  upon  Adenes  and  his  works,  leaving 
it  to  the  romance  of  Berte  aus  Grans  Pi/s  to 
plead  its  own  cause,  and  to  justify  the  impor 
tance  which  I  attach  to  its  publication. 


FRITHIOF'S    SAGA 

1837 

HERE  beginneth  the  Legend  of  Frithiof 
the  Valiant.  He  was  the  son  of  Thors- 
ten  Vikingsson,  a  thane,  and  loved  fair  Inge- 
borg,  the  daughter  of  a  king.  His  fame  was 
great  in  the  North,  and  his  name  in  the  song 
of  bards.  His  marvellous  deeds  on  land  and 
sea  are  told  in  tradition  ;  and  his  history  is 
written  in  the  old  Icelandic  Saga  that  bears 
his  name.  This  Saga  is  in  prose,  with  occa 
sionally  a  few  stanzas  of  verse.  Upon  the 
events  recorded  in  it  the  poem  of  TegneY  is 
founded. 

Esaias  Tegner,  Bishop  of  Wexio  and  Knight 
of  the  Order  of  the  North  Star,  was  born  in 
1782  and  died  in  1846.  He  stands  first  among 
the  poets  of  Sweden  ;  a  man  of  beautiful  im 
agination,  —  a  poetic  genius  of  high  order. 
His  countrymen  are  proud  of  him,  and  rejoice 
in  his  fame.  If  you  speak  of  their  literature, 
TegneY  will  be  the  first  name  upon  their  lips. 


54  Drift-  Wood 

They  will  tell  you  with  enthusiasm  of  Frithiof ' s 
Saga  ;  and  of  Axel,  and  Svea,  and  the  Children 
of  the  Lord's  Supper.  The  modern  Scald  has 
written  his  name  in  immortal  runes :  not  on 
the  bark  of  trees  alone,  in  the  "unspeakable 
rural  solitudes "  of  pastoral  song,  but  on  the 
mountains  of  his  fatherland,  and  the  cliffs  that 
overhang  the  sea,  and  on  the  tombs  of  ancient 
heroes,  whose  histories  are  epic  poems. 

The  Legend  of  Frithiof  is  an  epic  poem, 
composed  of  a  series  of  ballads,  each  describ 
ing  some  event  in  the  hero's  life,  and  each  writ 
ten  in  a  different  measure,  according  with  the 
action  described  in  the  ballad.  This  is  a  nov 
el  idea ;  and  perhaps  thereby  the  poem  loses 
something  in  sober,  epic  dignity.  But  the  loss 
is  more  than  made  up  by  the  greater  spirit  of 
the  narrative  ;  and  it  seems  a  laudable  innova 
tion  thus  to  describe  various  scenes  in  various 
metres,  and  not  to  employ  the  same  for  a  game 
of  chess  and  a  storm  at  sea. 

It  may  be  urged  against  Tegn6r,  with  some 
show  of  truth,  that  he  is  too  profuse  and  elab 
orate  in  his  use  of  figurative  language,  and 
that  the  same  figures  are  sometimes  repeated 
with  little  variation.  But  the  reader  must 
bear  in  mind  that  the  work  before  him  is  writ 


Frithiofs  Saga  55 

ten  in  the  spirit  of  the  Past ;  in  the  spirit  of 
that  old  poetry  of  the  North,  in  which  the 
same  images  and  expressions  are  oft  repeated, 
and  the  sword  is  called  the  Lightning's  Broth 
er  ;  a  banner,  the  Hider  of  Heaven  ;  gold,  the 
Daylight  of  Dwarfs  ;  and  the  grave,  the  Green 
Gate  of  Paradise.  The  old  Scald  smote  the 
strings  of  his  harp  with  as  bold  a  hand  as  the 
Berserk  smote  his  foe.  When  heroes  fell  in 
battle,  he  sang  of  them  in  his  Drapa,  or  Death- 
Song,  that  they  had  gone  to  drink  beer  with 
the  gods.  He  lived  in  a  credulous  age  ;  in  the 
dim  twilight  of  the  Past.  He  was 

"  The  skylark  in  the  dawn  of  years, 
The  poet  of  the  morn." 

In  the  vast  solitudes  around  him  "  the  heart 
of  Nature  beat  against  his  own."  From  the 
midnight  gloom  of  groves  the  melancholy 
pines  called  aloud  to  the  neighboring  sea. 
To  his  ear  these  were  not  the  voices  of  dead, 
but  of  living  things.  Demons  rode  the  ocean 
like  a  weary  steed,  and  the  gigantic  pines 
flapped  their  sounding  wings  to  smite  the 
spirit  of  the  storm.  « 

With  this  same  baptism  has  the  soul  of  the 
modern  Scald  been  baptized.  He  dwells  in 
that  land  where  the  sound  of  the  sea  and  the 


56  Drift-Wood 

midnight  storm  are  the  voices  of  tradition, 
and  the  great  forests  beckon  to  him,  and  in 
mournful  accents  seem  to  say,  "  Why  hast  thou 
tarried  so  long  ? "  They  have  not  spoken  in 
vain.  In  this  spirit  the  poem  has  been  writ 
ten,  and  in  this  spirit  it  must  be  read.  We 
must  visit,  in  imagination  at  least,  that  distant 
land,  and  converse  with  the  Genius  of  the 
place.  It  points  us  to  the  great  mounds, 
which  are  the  tombs  of  kings.  Their  bones 
are  within  ;  skeletons  of  warriors  mounted  on 
the  skeletons  of  their  steeds  ;  and  Vikings  sit 
ting  gaunt  and  grim  on  the  plankless  ribs  of 
their  pirate  ships.  There  is  a  wooden  statue 
in  the  Cathedral  of  Upsala.  It  is  an  image  of 
the  god  Thor,  who  in  Valhalla  holds  seven 
stars  in  his  hand,  and  Charles's  Wain.*  In 
the  village  of  Gamla  Upsala  there  is  an  an 
cient  church.  It  was  once  a  temple,  in  which 
the  gods  of  the  old  mythology  were  wor 
shipped.  In  every  mysterious  sound  that  fills 
the  air  the  peasant  still  hears  the  trampling  of 
Odin's  steed,  which  many  centuries  ago  took 

*  Thor  Gudh  war  hogsten  aff  them 
Han  satt  naken  som  ett  Barn 
Siv  stiernor  i  handen  och  Karlewagn. 

Old  Swedish  Rhyme-Chronicle. 


Frithiof's  Saga  57 

fright  at  the  sound  of  a  church  bell.  The 
memory  of  Balder  is  still  preserved  in  the 
flower  that  bears  his  name,  and  Freja's  spin 
ning-wheel  still  glimmers  in  the  stars  of  the 
constellation  Orion.  The  sound  of  Strom- 
karl's  flute  is  heard  in  tinkling  brooks,  and  his 
song  in  waterfalls.  In  the  forest  the  Skogs- 
frun,  of  wondrous  beauty,  leads  young  men 
astray  ;  and  Tomtgubbe  hammers  and  pounds 
away,  all  night  long,  at  the  peasant's  unfin 
ished  cottage. 

Almost  primeval  simplicity  reigns  over  this 
Northern  land,  —  almost  primeval  solitude  and 
stillness.  You  pass  out  from  the  gate  of  the 
city,  and,  as  if  by  magic,  the  scene  changes  to 
a  wild,  woodland  landscape.  Around  you  are 
forests  of  fir.  Overhead  hang  the  long  fan- 
like  branches  trailing  with  moss,  and  heavy 
with  red  and  blue  cones.  Underfoot  is  a  car 
pet  of  yellow  leaves,  and  the  air  is  warm  and 
balmy.  On  a  wooden  bridge  you  cross  a  little 
silver  stream.  Anon  you  come  forth  into  a 
pleasant  and  sunny  land  of  farms.  Wooden 
fences  divide  the  adjoining  fields.  Across  the 
road  are  gates,  which  are  opened  for  you  by 
troops  of  flaxen-haired  children.  The  peas 
ants  take  off  their  hats  as  you  pass.  You 


58  Drift-Wood 

sneeze,  and  they  cry,  "  God  bless  you  ! "  The 
houses  in  the  villages  and  smaller  cities  are  all 
built  of  hewn  timber,  and  for  the  most  part 
painted  red.  The  floors  of  the  taverns  are 
strewn  with  the  fragrant  tips  of  fir  boughs. 
In  many  villages  there  are  no  taverns,  and 
the  peasants  take  turns  in  receiving  travellers. 
The  thrifty  housewife  shows  you  into  the  best 
chamber,  the  walls  of  which  are  hung  round 
with  rude  pictures  from  the  Bible  ;  and  brings 
you  her  heavy  silver  spoons  —  an  heirloom  - 
to  dip  the  curdled  milk  from  the  pan.  You 
have  oaten  cakes  baked  some  months  before  ; 
or  bread  with  anise-seed  and  coriander  in  it, 
and  perhaps  a  little  pine-bark.* 

Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has  brought 
his  horses  from  the  plough,  and  harnessed 
them  to  your  carriage.  Solitary  travellers 
come  and  go  in  uncouth  one-horse  chaises. 

*  Speaking  of  Dalekarlia  a  Swedish  writer  says  :  "In  the 
poorer  parishes  the  inhabitants  are  forced,  even  in  good  years, 
to  mingle  some  bark  in  their  bread. "  Of  Elfdalen  he  says  : 
"The  people  are  poor;  without  bark-bread  they  could  not 
live  the  year  out.  The  traveller  who  visits  these  regions,  and 
sees  by  the  roadside  long  rows  of  young  pines  stripped  of 
their  bark,  in  answer  to  his  question  wherefore  this  is  so, 
hears,  and  truly  not  without  emotion,  his  postilion's  reply; 
'  To  make  bread  for  ourselves  and  for  our  children.'  " 


Frithiof's  Saga,  59 

Most  of  them  have  pipes  in  their  mouths, 
and,  hanging  around  their  necks  in  front,  a 
leathern  wallet,  wherein  they  carry  tobacco, 
and  the  great  bank-notes  of  the  country,  as 
large  as  your  two  hands.  You  meet,  also, 
groups  of  Dalekarlian  peasant-women,  trav 
elling  homeward  or  city-ward  in  pursuit  of 
work.  They  walk  barefoot,  carrying  in  their 
hands  their  shoes,  which  have  high  heels  un 
der  the  hollow  of  the  foot,  and  the  soles  of 
birch-bark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches  stand 
ing  by  the  roadside,  each  in  its  own  little  gar 
den  of  Gethsemane.  In  the  parish  register 
great  events  are  doubtless  recorded.  Some 
old  king  was  christened  or  buried  in  that 
church  ;  and  a  little  sexton,  with  a  great  rusty 
key,  shows  you  the  baptismal  font,  or  the 
coffin.  In  the  churchyard  are  a  few  flowers 
and  much  green  grass  ;  and  daily  the  shadow 
of  the  church  spire  with  its  long,  tapering 
finger,  counts  the  tombs,  thus  representing  an 
index  of  human  life,  on  which  the  hours  and 
minutes  are  the  graves  of  men.  The  stones 
are  flat,  and  large,  and  low,  and  perhaps 
sunken,  like  the  roofs  of  old  houses.  On 
some  are  armorial  bearings  ;  on  others,  only 


60  Drift-Wood 

the  initials  of  the  poor  tenants,  with  a  date, 
as  on  the  roofs  of  Dutch  cottages.  They  all 
sleep  with  their  heads  to  the  westward.  Each 
held  a  lighted  taper  in  his  hand  when  he  died  ; 
and  in  his  coffin  were  placed  his  little  heart- 
treasures,  and  a  piece  of  money  for  his  last 
journey.  Babes  that  came  lifeless  into  the 
world  were  carried  in  the  arms  of  gray-haired 
old  men  to  the  only  cradle  they  ever  slept  in  ; 
and  in  the  shroud  of  the  dead  mother  were 
laid  the  little  garments  of  the  child  that  lived 
and  died  in  her  bosom.  And  over  this  scene 
the  village  pastor  looks  from  his  window  in 
the  stillness  of  midnight,  and  says  in  his  heart, 
"  How  quietly  they  rest,  all  the  departed  ! " 

Near  the  churchyard  gate  stands  a  poor-box, 
fastened  to  a  post  by  iron  bands,  and  secured 
by  a  padlock,  with  a  sloping  wooden  roof  to 
keep  off  the  rain.  If  it  be  Sunday  the  peas 
ants  sit  on  the  church  steps  and  con  their 
psalm-books.  Others  are  coming  down  the 
road  with  their  beloved  pastor,  who  talks  to 
them  of  holy  things  from  beneath  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat.  He  speaks  of  fields  and  har 
vests,  and  of  the  parable  of  the  sower  that 
went  forth  to  sow.  He  leads  them  to  the 
Good  Shepherd,  and  to  the  pleasant  pastures 


Frithiof's  Saga  6r 

of  the  spirit-land.  He  is  their  patriarch,  and, 
like  Melchisedek,  both  priest  and  king,  though 
he  has  no  other  throne  than  the  church  pulpit. 
The  women  carry  psalm-books  in  their  hands, 
wrapped  in  silk  handkerchiefs,  and  listen  de 
voutly  to  the  good  man's  words.  But  the 
young  men,  like  Gallic,  care  for  none  of  these 
things.  They  are  busy  counting  the  plaits  in 
the  kirtles  of  the  peasant-girls,  their  number 
being  an  indication  of  the  wearer's  wealth. 
It  may  end  in  a  wedding. 

I  must  describe  a  village  wedding  in  Swe 
den.  It  shall  be  in  summer  time,  that  there 
may  be  flowers,  and  in  a  southern  province, 
that  the  bride  may  be  fair.  The  early  song 
of  the  lark  and  of  chanticleer  are  mingling  in 
the  clear  morning  air  ;  and  the  sun,  the  heav 
enly  bridegroom  with  golden  locks,  arises  in 
the  east,  just  as  Olof  Olofsson,  our  earthly 
bridegroom  with  yellow  hair,  arises  in  the 
south.  In  the  yard  there  is  a  sound  of  voices 
and  trampling  of  hoofs,  and  horses  are  led 
forth  and  saddled.  The  steed  that  is  to  bear 
the  bridegroom  has  a  bunch  of  flowers  upon 
his  forehead,  and  a  garland  of  corn-flowers 
around  his  neck.  Friends  from  the  neighbor 
ing  farms  come  riding  in,  their  blue  cloaks 


62  Drift- Wood 

streaming  to  the  wind  ;  and  finally,  the  happy 
bridegroom,  with  a  whip  in  his  hand,  and  a 
monstrous  nosegay  in  the  breast  of  his  black 
jacket,  comes  forth  from  his  chamber  ;  and 
then  to  horse  and  away,  towards  the  village 
where  the  bride  already  sits  and  waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  Spokesman,  followed  by 
some  half-dozen  village  musicians,  all  blow 
ing  and  drumming  and  fifing  away  like  mad. 
Then  comes  the  bridegroom  between  his  two 
groomsmen,  and  then  forty  or  fifty  friends  and 
wedding  guests,  half  of  them  perhaps  with 
pistols  and  guns  in  their  hands.  A  kind  of 
baggage-wagon  brings  up  the  rear,  laden  with 
meat  and  drink  for  these  merry  pilgrims.  At 
the  entrance  of  every  village  stands  a  trium 
phal  arch,  adorned  with  flowers  and  ribbons 
and  evergreens  ;  and  as  they  pass  beneath  it 
the  wedding  guests  fire  a  salute,  and  the 
whole  procession  stops.  And  straight  from 
every  pocket  flies  a  black-jack,  filled  with 
punch  or  brandy.  It  is  passed  from  hand  to 
hand  among  the  crowd  ;  provisions  are  brought 
from  the  wagon  of  the  sumpter  horse  ;  and 
after  eating  and  drinking  and  loud  hurrahs, 
the  procession  moves  forward  again,  and  at 
length  draws  near  the  house  of  the  bride. 


Frithiofs  Saga  63 

Four  heralds  ride  forward  to  announce  that 
a  knight  and  his  attendants  are  in  the  neigh 
boring  forest,  and  pray  for  hospitality.  "  How 
many  are  you  ? "  asks  the  bride's  father.  "  At 
least  three  hundred,"  is  the  answer  ;  and  to 
this  the  host  replies,  "  Yes  ;  were  you  seven 
times  as  many  you  should  all  be  welcome  ; 
and  in  token  thereof  receive  this  cup."  Where 
upon  each  herald  receives  a  can  of  ale,  and 
soon  after  the  whole  jovial  company  come 
storming  into  the  farmer's  yard,  and,  riding 
round  the  May-pole,  which  stands  in  the  cen 
tre,  alight  amid  a  grand  salute  and  flourish 
of  music. 

In  the  hall  sits  the  bride,  with  a  crown  upon 
her  head  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  like  the  Virgin 
Mary  in  old  church  paintings.  She  is  dressed 
in  a  red  bodice  and  kirtle,  with  loose  linen 
sleeves.  There  is  a  gilded  belt  around  her 
waist ;  and  around  her  neck,  strings  of  golden 
beads  and  a  golden  chain.  On  the  crown 
rests  a  wreath  of  wild  roses,  and  below  it  an 
other  of  cypress.  Loose  over  her  shoulders 
falls  her  flaxen  hair  ;  and  her  blue  innocent 
eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  ground.  O  thou  good 
soul !  thou  hast  hard  hands,  but  a  soft  heart ! 
Thou  art  poor.  The  very  ornaments  thou 


64  Drift-Wood 

wearest  are  not  thine.  They  have  been  hired 
for  this  great  day.  Yet  art  thou  rich  ;  rich  in 
health,  rich  in  hope,  rich  in  thy  first,  young, 
fervent  love.  The  blessing  of  Heaven  be 
upon  thee !  So  thinks  the  parish  priest,  as  he 
joins  together  the  hands  of  bride  and  bride 
groom,  saying,  in  deep,  solemn  tones :  "  I  give 
thee  in  marriage  this  damsel,  to  be  thy  wed 
ded  wife  in  all  honor,  and  to  share  the  half  of 
thy  bed,  thy  lock  and  key,  and  every  third 
penny  which  you  two  may  possess,  or  may  in 
herit,  and  all  the  rights  which  Upland's  laws 
provide,  and  the  holy  King  Erik  gave." 

The  dinner  is  now  served,  and  the  bride  sits 
between  the  bridegroom  and  the  priest.  The 
Spokesman  delivers  an  oration,  after  the  an 
cient  custom  of  his  fathers.  He  interlards  it 
well  with  quotations  from  the  Bible  ;  and  in 
vites  the  Saviour  to  be  present  at  this  mar 
riage  feast,  as  he  was  at  the  marriage  feast  in 
Cana  of  Galilee.  The  table  is  not  sparingly  set 
forth.  Each  makes  a  long  arm,  and  the  feast 
goes  cheerly  on.  Punch  and  brandy  are  served 
up  between  the  courses,  and  here  and  there  a 
pipe  smoked  while  waiting  for  the  next  dish. 
They  sit  long  at  table  ;  but,  as  all  things  must 
have  an  end,  so  must  a  Swedish  dinner.  Then 


Frithiofs  Saga  65 

the  dance  begins.  It  is  led  off  by  the  bride 
and  the  priest,  who  perform  a  solemn  minuet 
together.  Not  till  after  midnight  comes  the 
Last  Dance.  The  girls  form  a  ring  around 
the  bride  to  keep  her  from  the  hands  of  the 
married  women,  who  endeavor  to  break  through 
the  magic  circle  and  seize  their  new  sister. 
After  long  struggling,  they  succeed  ;  and  the 
crown  is  taken  from  her  head  and  the  jewels 
from  her  neck,  and  her  bodice  is  unlaced  and 
her  kirtle  taken  off;  and  like  a  vestal  virgin 
clad  in  white  she  goes,  but  it  is  to  her  mar 
riage  chamber,  not  to  her  grave  ;  and  the  wed 
ding  guests  follow  her  with  lighted  candles  in 
their  hands.  And  this  is  a  village  bridal. 

Nor  must  we  forget  the  sudden  changing 
seasons  of  the  Northern  clime.  There  is  no 
long  and  lingering  Spring,  unfolding  leaf  and 
blossom  one  by  one  ;  no  long  and  lingering 
Autumn,  pompous  with  many-colored  leaves 
and  the  glow  of  Indian  summers.  But  Win 
ter  and  Summer  are  wonderful,  and  pass  into 
each  other.  The  quail  has  hardly  ceased  pip 
ing  in  the  corn  when  Winter,  from  the  folds  of 
trailing  clouds,  sows  broadcast  over  the  land 
snow,  icicles,  and  rattling  hail.  The  days 
wane  apace.  Erelong  the  sun  hardly  rises 


66  Drift-Wood 

above  the  horizon,  or  does  not  rise  at  all.  The 
moon  and  the  stars  shine  through  the  day  ; 
only  at  noon  they  are  pale  and  wan,  and  in 
the  southern  sky  a  red,  fiery  glow,  as  of  sun 
set,  burns  along  the  horizon,  and  then  goes 
out.  And  pleasantly  under  the  silver  moon, 
and  under  the  silent,  solemn  stars,  ring  the 
steel  shoes  of  the  skaters  on  the  frozen  sea, 
and  voices  and  the  sound  of  bells. 

And  now  the  Northern  Lights  begin  to 
burn,  faintly  at  first,  like  sunbeams  playing  in 
the  waters  of  the  blue  sea.  Then  a  soft  crim 
son  glow  tinges  the  heavens.  There  is  a  blush 
on  the  cheek  of  night.  The  colors  come  and 
go  ;  and  change  from  crimson  to  gold,  from 
gold  to  crimson.  The  snow  is  stained  with 
rosy  light.  Twofold  from  the  zenith,  east  and 
west,  flames  a  fiery  sword  ;  and  a  broad  band 
passes  athwart  the  heavens  like  a  summer 
sunset.  Soft  purple  clouds  come  sailing  over 
the  sky,  and  through  their  vapory  folds  the 
winking  stars  shine  white  as  silver.  With 
such  pomp  as  this  is  Merry  Christmas  ushered 
in,  though  only  a  single  star  heralded  the  first 
Christmas.  And  in  memory  of  that  day  the 
Swedish  peasants  dance  on  straw  ;  and  the 
peasant-girls  throw  straws  at  the  timbered 


Frithiof's  Saga  67 

roof  of  the  hall,  and  for  every  one  that  sticks 
in  a  crack  shall  a  groomsman  come  to  their 
wedding.  Merry  Christmas  indeed  !  For 
pious  souls  church  songs  shall  be  sung,  and 
sermons  preached  ;  — 

"  And  all  the  bells  on  earth  shall  ring, 
And  all  the  angels  in  heaven  shall  sing, 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. " 

But  for  Swedish  peasants  brandy  and  nut- 
brown  ale  in  wooden  bowls  ;  and  the  great 
Yule-cake  crowned  with  a -cheese,  and  gar 
landed  with  apples,  and  upholding  a  three- 
armed  candlestick  over  the  Christmas  feast. 
They  may  tell  tales,  too,  of  Jons  Lunds- 
bracka,  and  Lunkenfus,  and  the  great  Riddar 
Finke  of  Pingsdaga.* 

And  now  the  glad,  leafy  midsummer,  full 
of  blossoms  and  the  song  of  nightingales,  is 
come  !  Saint  John  has  taken  the  flowers  and 
festival  of  heathen  Balder  ;  and  in  every  vil 
lage  there  is  a  May-pole  fifty  feet  high,  with 
wreaths  and  roses  and  ribbons  streaming  in 
the  wind,  and  a  noisy  weathercock  on  top,  to 
tell  the  village  whence  the  wind  cometh  and 
whither  it  goeth.  The  sun  does  not  set  till 
ten  o'clock  at  night  ;  and  the  children  are  at 

*  Titles  of  Swedish  popular  tales. 


68  Drift-Wood 

play  in  the  streets  an  hour  later.  The  win 
dows  and  doors  are  all  open,  and  you  may 
sit  and  read  till  midnight  without  a  candle. 
O,  how  beautiful  is  the  summer  night,  which 
is  not  night,  but  a  sunless  yet  unclouded  day, 
descending  upon  earth  with  dews,  and  shad 
ows,  and  refreshing  coolness  !  How  beautiful 
the  long,  mild  twilight,  which  like  a  silver 
clasp  unites  to-day  with  yesterday  !  How 
beautiful  the  silent  hour,  when  Morning  and 
Evening  thus  sit  together,  hand  in  hand,  be 
neath  the  starless  sky  of  midnight  !  From 
the  church  tower  in  the  public  square  the  bell 
tolls  the  hour,  with  a  soft,  musical  chime  ;  and 
the  watchman,  whose  watch-tower  is  the  bel 
fry,  blows  a  blast  in  his  horn  for  each  stroke 
of  the  hammer,  and  four  times  to  the  four  cor 
ners  of  the  heavens,  in  a  sonorous  voice,  he 
chants  :  — 

"  Ho  !  watchman,  ho  ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock  ! 
God  keep  our  town 
From  fire  and  brand, 
And  hostile  hand  ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock  ! " 

From  his  swallow's  nest  in  the  belfry  he  can 
see  the  sun  all  night  long  ;  and  farther  north 
the  priest  stands  at  his  door  in  the  warm  mid- 


Frithiofs  Saga  69 

night,  and  lights  his  pipe  with  a  common  burn 
ing-glass. 

And  all  this  while  the  good  Bishop  of 
Wexio  is  waiting,  with  his  poem  in  his  hand. 
And  such  a  poem,  too  !  Alas  !  I  am  but  too 
well  aware,  that  a  brief  analysis  and  a  few 
scattered  extracts  can  give  only  a  faint  idea  of 
the  original,  and  that  consequently  the  admi 
ration  of  my  readers  will  probably  lag  some 
what  behind  my  own.  If  the  poem  itself 
should  ever  fall  into  their  hands,  I  hope  that 
the  foregoing  remarks  on  Sweden,  which  now 
may  seem  to  them  a  useless  digression,  will 
nevertheless  enable  them  to  enter  more  easily 
into  the  spirit  of  the  poem,  and  to  feel  more 
truly  the  influences  under  which  it  was  written. 


The  first  canto  describes  the  childhood  and 
youth  of  Frithiof  and  Ingeborg  the  fair,  as 
they  grew  up  together  under  the  humble  roof 
of  Hilding,  their  foster-father,  They  are  two 
plants  in  the  old  man's  garden  ;  —  a  young 
oak,  whose  stem  is  like  a  lance,  and  whose 
leafy  top  is  rounded  like  a  helm  ;  and  a  rose, 
in  whose  folded  buds  the  Spring  still  sleeps 
and  dreams  But  the  storm  comes,  and  the 


70  Drift-  Wood 

young  oak  must  wrestle  with  it  ;  the  sun  of 
Spring  shines  warm  in  heaven,  and  the  red 
lips  of  the  rose  open.  The  sports  of  their 
childhood  are  described.  They  sail  together 
on  the  deep  blue  sea  ;  and  when  he  shifts  the 
sail,  she  claps  her  small  white  hands  in  glee. 
For  her  he  plunders  the  highest  bird's-nests, 
and  the  eagle's  eyry,  and  bears  her  through 
the  rushing  mountain  brook,  it  is  so  sweet 
when  the  torrent  roars  to  be  pressed  by  small 
white  arms. 

But  childhood  and  the  sports  thereof  soon 
pass  away,  and  Frithiof  becomes  a  mighty 
hunter.  He  fights  the  bear  without  spear  or 
sword,  and  lays  the  conquered  monarch  of 
the  forest  at  the  feet  of  Ingeborg.  And  when, 
by  the  light  of  the  winter-evening'hearth,  he 
reads  the  glorious  songs  of  Valhalla,  no  god 
dess,  whose  beauty  is  there  celebrated,  can 
compare  with  Ingeborg.  Freya's  golden  hair 
may  wave  like  a  wheat-field  in  the  wind,  but 
Ingeborg's  is  a  net  of  gold  around  roses  and 
lilies.  Iduna's  bosom  throbs  full  and  fair  be 
neath  her  silken  vest,  but  beneath  the  silken 
vest  of  Ingeborg  two  Elves  of  Light  leap  up 
with  rose-buds  in  their  hands.  And  she  em 
broiders  in  gold  and  silver  the  wondrous  deeds 


Frithiofs  Saga  /i 

of  heroes  ;  and  the  face  of  every  champion 
that  looks  up  at  her  from  the  woof  she  is 
weaving  is  the  face  of  Frithiof ;  and  she 
blushes  and  is  glad  ;  —  that  is  to  say,  they 
love  each  other  a  little.  Ancient  Hilding  does 
not  favor  their  passion,  but  tells  his  foster-son 
that  the  maiden  is  the  daughter  of  King  Bele, 
and  he  but  the  son  of  Thorsten  Vikingsson, 
a  Thane  ;  he  should  not  aspire  to  the  love  of 
one  who  has  descended  in  a  long  line  of  an 
cestors  from  the  star-clear  hall  of  Odin  him 
self.  Frithiof  smiles  in  scorn,  and  replies  that 
he  has  slain  the  shaggy  king  of  the  forest, 
and  inherits  his  ancestors  with  his  hide  ;  and 
moreover  that  he  will  possess  his  bride,  his 
white  lily,  in  spite  of  the  very  god  of  thunder ; 
for  a  puissant  wooer  is  the  sword. 

ii 

Thus  closes  the  first  canto.  In  the  second, 
old  King  Bele  stands  leaning  on  his  sword  in 
his  hall,  and  with  him  is  his  faithful  brother 
in  arms,  Thorsten  Vikingsson,  the  father  of 
Frithiof,  silver-haired,  and  scarred  like  a  runic 
stone.  The  king  complains  that  the  evening 
of  his  days  is  drawing  near,  that  the  mead  is 
no  longer  pleasant  to  his  taste,  and  that  his 


72  Drift-  Wood 

helmet  weighs  heavily  upon  his  brow.  He 
feels  the  approach  of  death.  Therefore  he 
summons  to  his  presence  his  two  sons,  Helge 
and  Halfdan,  and  with  them  Frithiof,  that 
he  may  give  a  warning  to  the  young  eagles 
before  the  words  slumber  on  the  dead  man's 
tongue.  Foremost  advances  Helge,  a  grim 
and  gloomy  figure,  who  loves  to  dwell  among 
the  priests  and  before  the  altars,  and  now 
comes,  with  blood  upon  his  hands,  from  the 
groves  of  sacrifice.  And  next  to  him  ap 
proaches  Halfdan,  a  boy  with  locks  of  light, 
and  so  gentle  in  his  mien  and  bearing  that  he 
seems  a  maiden  in  disguise.  And  after  these, 
wrapped  in  his  mantle  blue,  and  a  head  taller 
than  either,  comes  Frithiof,  and  stands  be 
tween  the  brothers,  like  midday  between  the 
rosy  morning  and  the  shadowy  night.  Then 
speaks  the  king,  and  tells  the  young  eaglets 
that  his  sun  is  going  down,  and  that  they 
must  rule  his  realm  after  him  in  harmony  and 
brotherly  love  ;  that  the  sword  was  given  for 
defence  and  not  for  offence  ;  that  the  shield 
was  forged  as  a  padlock  for  the  peasant's 
barn  ;  and  that  they  should  not  glory  in  their 
fathers'  honors,  as  each  can  bear  his  own  only. 
If  we  cannot  bend  the  bow,  he  says,  it  is  not 


Frithiofs  Saga  73 

ours  ;  what  have  we  to  do  with  worth  that  is 
buried  ?  The  mighty  stream  goes  into  the 
sea  with  its  own  waves.  These,  and  many 
other  wise  sayings,  fall  from  the  old  man's  dy 
ing  lips  ;  and  then  Thorsten  Vikingsson,  who 
means  to  die  with  his  king  as  he  has  lived 
with  him,  arises  and  addresses  his  son  Fri- 
thiof.  He  tells  him  that  old  age  has  whis 
pered  many  warnings  in  his  ear,  which  he 
will  repeat  to  him  ;  for  as  the  birds  of  Odin 
descend  upon  the  sepulchres  of  the  North,  so 
words  of  manifold  wisdom  descend  upon  the 
lips  of  the  old.  Then  follows  much  sage  ad 
vice  ;  —  that  he  should  serve  his  king,  for  one 
alone  shall  reign,  —  the  dark  Night  has  many 
eyes,  but  the  Day  has  only  one  ;  that  he 
should  not  praise  the  day  until  the  sun  had 
set,  nor  his  beer  until  he  had  drunk  it  ;  that 
he  should  not  trust  to  ice  but  one  night  old, 
nor  snow  in  spring,  nor  a  sleeping  snake, 
nor  the  words  of  a  maiden  on  his  knee,  — 
sagacious  hints  from  the  High  Song  of  Odin. 
Then  the  old  men  speak  together  of  their 
long-tried  friendship  ;  and  the  king  praises 
the  valor  and  heroic  strength  of  Frithiof,  and 
Thorsten  has  much  to  say  of  the  glory  which 
crowns  the  Kings  of  the  North-land,  the  sons 


74  Drift-Wood 

of  the  gods.  Then  the  king  speaks  to  his 
sons  again,  and  bids  them  greet  his  daughter, 
the  rose-bud.  In  retirement,  says  he,  as  it  be 
hoved  her,  has  she  grown  up  ;  protect  her ;  let 
not  the  storm  come  and  fix  upon  his  helmet 
my  delicate  flower.  And  he  bids  them  bury 
him  and  his  ancient  friend  by  the  seaside,  — 
by  the  billow  blue,  for  its  song  is  pleasant  to 
the  spirit  evermore,  and,  like  a  funeral  dirge, 
its  blows  ring  against  the  strand. 

in 

And  now  King  Bele  and  Thorsten  Vikings- 
son  are  gathered  to  their  fathers  ;  Helge  and 
Halfdan  share  the  throne  between  them,  and 
Frithiof  retires  to  his  ancestral  estate  at  Fram- 
na's  ;  of  which  a  description  is  given  in  the 
third  canto,  conceived  and  executed  in  a  truly 
Homeric  spirit. 

"  Three  miles  extended  around  the  fields  of  the  homestead, 

on  three  sides 
Valleys  and  mountains  and  hills,  but  on  the  fourth  side  was 

the  ocean. 
Birch  woods  crowned  the  summits,  but  down  the  slope  of 

the  hillsides 
Flourished  the  golden  corn,  and  man-high  was  waving  the 

rye-field. 
Lakes,  full  many  in  number,  their  mirror  held  up  for  the 

mountains, 


Frithiofs  Saga  75 

Held  for  the  forests  up,  in  whose  depths  the  high-horned 
reindeers 

Had  their  kingly  walk,  and  drank  of  a  hundred  brooklets. 

But  in  the  valleys  widely  around,  there  fed  on  the  green 
sward 

Herds  with  shining  hides  and  udders  that  longed  for  the 
milk-pail. 

'Mid  these  scattered,  now  here  and  now  there,  were  num 
berless  flocks  of 

Sheep  with  fleeces  white,  as  thou  seest  the  white-looking 
stray  clouds, 

Flock-wise  spread  o'er  the  heavenly  vault,  when  it  bloweth 
in  spring-time. 

Coursers  two  times  twelve,  all  mettlesome,  fast  fettered 
storm-winds, 

Stamping  stood  in  the  line  of  stalls,  and  tugged  at  their 
fodder, 

Knotted  with  red  were  their  manes,  and  their  hoofs  all 
white  with  steel  shoes. 

Th'  banquet-hall,  a  house  by  itself,  was  timbered  of  hard  fir. 

Not  five  hundred  men  (at  ten  times  twelve  to  the  hundred  *) 

Filled  up  the  roomy  hall,  when  assembled  for  drinking,  at 
Yule-tide. 

I'horough  the  hall,  as  long  as  it  was,  went  a  table  of  holm-oak, 

Polished  and  white,  as  of  steel ;  the  columns  twain  of  the 
High-seat 

Stood  at  the  end  thereof,  two  gods  carved  out  of  an  elm-tree  ; 

Odin  f  with  lordly  look,  and  Frey  %  with  the  sun  on  his 
frontlet 

*  An  old  fashion  of  reckoning  in  the  North. 
f  Odin,  the  All-father ;   the  Jupiter  of  the  Scandinavian 
mythology. 

t  Frey,  the  god  of  Fertility  ;  the  Bacchus  of  the  North. 


Drift- Wood 


Lately  between  the  two,  on  a  bear-skin,  (the  skin  it  was 

coal-black, 
Scarlet-red  was  the  throat,  but  the  paws  were  shodden  with 

silver,) 

Thorsten  sat  with  his  friends,  Hospitality  sitting  with  Glad 
ness. 
Oft,  when  the  moon  through  the  cloud-rack  flew,  related 

the  old  man 
Wonders  from  distant   lands  he  had  seen,  and  cruises  of 

Vikings  * 
Far  away  on  the  Baltic,  and    Sea  of  the  West,  and    the 

White  Sea. 
Hushed  sat  the  listening  bench,  and  their  glances  hung  on 

the  graybeard's 
Lips,  as  a  bee  on  the  rose ;  but  the  Skald  was  thinking  of 

Brage,f 
Where,  with  his  silver  beard,  and  runes  on  his  tongue,  he  is 

seated 

Under  the  leafy  beach,  and  tells  a  tradition  by  Mimer's  + 
Ever-murmuring  wave,  himself  a  living  tradition. 
Midway  the  floor  (with  thatch  was  it  strewn)  burned  evel 

the  fire-flame 

Glad   on  its  stone-built  hearth  ;   and  thorough  the  wide- 
mouthed  smoke-flue 
Looked   the  stars,  those  heavenly  friends,  down  into  the 

great  hall. 

Round  the  walls,  upon  nails  of  steel,  were  hanging  in  order 
Breastplate  and  helmet  together,  and  here  and  there  among 

them 

*  The  old  pirates  of  the  North. 

t  Brage,  the  god  of  Song ;  the  Scandinavian  Apollo. 
J  Mimer,  the  Giant,  who  possessed  the  Well  of  Wisdom, 
under  one  of  the  roots  of  the  Ash  Igdrasil. 


Frithiofs  Saga  77 

Downward  lightened  a  sword,  as  in  winter  evening  a  star 

shoots. 
More  than  helmets  and  swords  the  shields  in  the  hall  were 

resplendent, 
White  as  the  orb  of  the  sun,  or  white  as  the  moon's  disk  of 

silver. 
Ever  and  anon  went  a  maid  round  the  board,  and  filled  up 

the  drink-horns, 
Ever  she  cast  down  her  eyes  and  blushed  ;  in  the  shield  her 

reflection 
Blushed,  too,  even   as   she  ;   this   gladdened  the  drinking 

champions." 

Among  the  treasures  of  Frithiof's  house  are 
three  of  transcendent  worth.  The  first  of  these 
is  the  sword  Angurvadel,  brother  of  the  light 
ning,  handed  down  from  generation  to  genera 
tion,  since  the  days  of  Bj  orn  Blatand,  the  Blue- 
toothed  Bear.  The  hilt  thereof  was  of  beaten 
gold,  and  on  the  blade  were  wondrous  runes, 
known  only  at  the  gates  of  the  sun.  In  peace 
these  runes  were  dull,  but  in  time  of  war  they 
burned  red  as  the  comb  of  a  cock  when  he 
fights  ;  and  lost  was  he  who  in  the  night  of 
slaughter  met  the  sword  of  the  flaming  runes ! 

The  second  in  price  is  an  arm-ring  of  pure 
gold,  made  by  Vaulund,  the  limping  Vulcan 
of  the  North  ;  and  containing  upon  its  border 
the  signs  of  the  zodiac,  —  the  Houses  of  the 
Twelve  Immortals.  This  ring  had  been  hand- 


78  Drift -Wood 

ed  down  in  the  family  of  Frithiof  from  the 
days  when  it  came  from  the  hands  of  Vau- 
lund,  the  founder  of  the  race.  It  was  once 
stolen  and  carried  to  England  by  Viking  Sote, 
who  there  buried  himself  alive  in  a  vast  tomb, 
and  with  him  his  pirate-ship  and  all  his  treas 
ures.  King  Bele  and  Thorsten  pursue  him, 
and  through  a  crevice  of  the  door  look  into 
the  tomb,  where  they  behold  the  ship,  with 
anchor  and  masts  and  spars  ;  and  on  the  deck, 
a  fearful  figure,  clad  in  a  mantle  of  flame,  sits, 
gloomily  scouring  a  blood-stained  sword.  The 
ring  is  upon  his  arm.  Thorsten  bursts  the 
doors  of  the  great  tomb  asunder  with  his 
lance,  and,  entering,  does  battle  with  the  grim 
spirit,  and  bears  home  the  ring  as  a  trophy  of 
his  victory.* 

The  third  great  treasure  of  the  house  of 
Frithiof  is  the  dragon-ship  Ellida.  It  was 
given  to  one  of  Frithiof  s  ancestors  by  a  sea- 
god,  whom  this  ancestor  saved  from  drown 
ing,  somewhat  as  Saint  Christopher  did  the 
angel.  The  ancient  mariner  was  homeward 
bound,  when  at  a  distance  on  the  wreck  of  a 

*  Not  unlike  the  old  tradition  of  the  ring  of  Gyges  ;  which 
was  found  on  a  dead  man's  finger  in  the  flank  of  a  brazen 
horse,  deep  buried  in  a  chasm  of  the  earth. 


Frithiofs  Saga  79 

ship  he  espied  an  old  man  with  sea-green 
locks,  a  beard  white  as  the  foam  of  waves, 
and  a  face  which  smiled  like  the  sea  when  it 
plays  in  sunshine.  Viking  takes  this  Old  Man 
of  the  Sea  home  with  him,  and  entertains  him 
in  hospitable  guise  ;  but  at  bedtime  the  green- 
haired  guest,  instead  of  going  quietly  to  his 
rest  like  a  Christian  man,  sets  sail  again  on 
his  wreck,  like  a  hobgoblin,  having,  as  he 
says,  a  hundred  miles  to  go  that  night,  at  the 
same  time  telling  the  Viking  to  look  the  next 
morning  on  the  sea-shore  for  a  gift  of  thanks. 
And  the  next  morning,  behold  !  the  dragon- 
ship  Ellida  comes  sailing  up  the  harbor,  like 
a  phantom  ship,  with  all  her  sails  set,  and 
not  a  man  on  board.  Her  prow  is  a  dragon's 
head,  with  jaws  of  gold  ;  her  stern,  a  dragon's 
tail,  twisted  and  scaly  with  silver  ;  her  wings 
black,  tipped  with  red  ;  and  when  she  spreads 
them  all,  she  flies  a  race  with  the  roaring 
storm,  and  the  eagle  is  left  behind. 

These  were  Frithiofs  treasures,  renowned 
in  the  North  ;  and  thus  in  his  hall,  with  Bjorn, 
his  bosom  friend,  he  sat,  surrounded  by  his 
champions  twelve,  with  breasts  of  steel  and 
furrowed  brows,  the  comrades  of  his  father, 
and  all  the  guests  that  had  gathered  together 


8o  Drift -Wood 

to  pay  the  funeral  rites  to  Thorsten,  the  son 
of  Viking.  And  Frithiof,  with  eyes  full  of 
tears,  drank  to  his  father's  memory,  and  heard 
the  song  of  the  Scalds,  a  dirge  of  thunder. 

IV 

Frithiof  s  Courtship  is  the  title  of  the  fourth 
canto. 

"  High  sounded  the  song  in  Frithiof 's  hall, 
And  the  Scalds  they  praised  his  fathers  all ; 
But  the  song  rejoices 
Not  Frithiof,  he  hears  not  the  Scalds'  loud  voices. 

"  And  the  earth  has  clad  itself  green  again, 
And  the  dragons  swim  once  more  on  the  main, 
But  the  hero's  son 
He  wanders  in  woods,  and  looks  at  the  moon. " 

He  had  lately  made  a  banquet  for  Helge  and 
Halfdan,  and  sat  beside  Ingeborg  the  fair,  and 
spoke  with  her  of  those  early  days  when  the 
dew  of  morning  still  lay  upon  life  ;  of  the  rem 
iniscences  of  childhood  ;  their  names  carved 
in  the  birch-tree's  bark  ;  the  well-known  val 
ley  and  woodland,  and  the  hill  where  the 
great  oaks  grew  from  the  dust  of  heroes. 
And  now  the  banquet  closes,  and  Frithiof 
remains  at  his  homestead  to  pass  his  days 
in  idleness  and  dreams.  But  this  strange 
mood  pleases  not  his  friend  the  Bear. 


Frithiof  *s  Saga  81 

"  It  pleased  not  Bjb'rn  these  things  to  see  : 
'  What  ails  the  young  eagle  now,'  said  he, 
'  So  still,  so  oppressed  ? 
Have  they  plucked  his  wings  ?  have  they  pierced  his  breast  ? 

"  '  What  wilt  thou  ?  Have  we  not  more  than  we  need 
Of  the  yellow  lard  and  the  nut-brown  mead  ? 
And  of  Scalds  a  throng  ? 
There  's  never  an  end  to  their  ballads  long. 

"  '  True  enough,  the  coursers  stamp  in  their  stall, 
For  prey,  for  prey,  scream  the  falcons  all ; 
But  Frithiof  only 
Hunts  in  the  clouds,  and  weeps  so  lonely. ' 


"  Then  Frithiof  set  the  dragon  free, 
And  the  sails  swelled  full,  and  snorted  the  sea. 
Right  over  the  bay 
To  the  sons  of  the  King  he  steered  his  way. " 

He  finds  them  at  the  grave  of  their  father, 
King  Bele,  giving  audience  to  the  people,  and 
promulgating  laws,  and  he  boldly  asks  the 
hand  of  their  sister  Ingeborg,  this  alliance  be 
ing  in  accordance  with  the  wishes  of  King 
Bele.  To  this  proposition  Helge  answers,  in 
scorn,  that  his  sister's  hand  is  not  for  the  son 
of  a  thane  ;  that  he  needs  not  the  sword  of 
Frithiof  to  protect  his  throne,  but  if  he  will 
be  his  serf,  there  is  a  place  vacant  among  the 
house-folk  which  he  can  fill.  Indignant  at 


82  Drift-Wood 

this  reply,  Frithiof  draws  his  sword  of  the 
flaming  runes,  and  at  one  blow  cleaves  in 
twain  the  golden  shield  of  Helge  as  it  hangs 
on  a  tree,  and,  turning  away  in  disdain,  de 
parts  over  the  blue  sea  homeward. 


In  the  next  canto  the  scene  changes.  Old 
King  Ring  pushes  back  his  golden  chair  from 
the  table,  and  arises  to  speak  to  his  heroes 
and  Scalds, — old  King  Ring,  a  monarch  re 
nowned  in  the  North,  beloved  by  all  as  a 
father  to  the  land  he  governs,  and  whose 
name  each  night  goes  up  to  Odin  with  the 
prayers  of  his  people.  He  announces  to  them 
his  intention  of  taking  to  himself  a  new 
queen  as  a  mother  to  his  infant  son,  and  tells 
them  he  has  fixed  his  choice  upon  Ingeborg> 
the  lily  small,  with  the  blush  of  morn  on  her 
cheeks.  Messengers  are  forthwith  sent  to 
Helge  and  Halfdan,  bearing  golden  gifts,  and 
attended  by  a  long  train  of  Scalds,  who  sing 
heroic  ballads  to  the  sound  of  their  harps. 
Three  days  and  three  nights  they  revel  at  the 
court ;  and  on  the  fourth  morning  receive  from 
Helge  a  solemn  refusal  and  from  Halfdan  a 
taunt,  that  King  Graybeard  should  ride  forth 


Frithiofs  Saga  83 

in  person  to  seek  his  bride.  Old  King  Ring 
is  wroth  at  the  reply,  and  straightway  pre 
pares  to  avenge  his  wounded  pride  with  his 
sword.  He  smites  his  shield  as  it  hangs  on 
the  bough  of  the  high  linden-tree,  and  the 
dragons  swim  forth  on  the  waves  with  blood- 
red  combs,  and  the  helms  nod  in  the  wind. 
The  sound  of  the  approaching  war  reaches 
the  ears  of  the  royal  brothers,  and  they  place 
their  sister  for  protection  in  the  temple  of 
Balder* 

VI 

In  the  next  canto,  which  is  the  sixth,  Fri- 
thiof  and  Bjorn  are  playing  chess  together, 
when  old  Hilding  comes  in,  bringing  the 
prayer  of  Helge  and  Halfdan,  that  Frith iof 
would  aid  them  in  the  war  against  King 
Ring.  Frithiof,  instead  of  answering  the  old 
man,  continues  his  game,  making  allusions  as 
it  goes  on  to  the  king's  being  saved  by  a 
peasant  or  pawn,  and  the  necessity  of  rescu 
ing  the  queen  at  all  hazards.  Finally,  he  tells 
the  ancient  Hilding  to  return  to  Bele's  sons 
and  tell  them  that  they  have  wounded  his 
honor,  that  no  ties  unite  them  together,  and 

*  Balder,  the  god  of  the  Summer  Sun. 


84  Drift-Wood 

that   he   will   never  be   their  bondman.      So 
closes  this  short  and  very  spirited  canto. 

VII 

The  seventh  canto  describes  the  meeting 
of  Frithiof  and  Ingeborg  in  Balder's  temple, 
when  silently  the  high  stars  stole  forth,  like  a 
lover  to  his  maid,  on  tiptoe.  Here  all  pas 
sionate  vows  are  retold ;  he  swears  to  protect 
her  with  his  sword  while  here  on  earth,  and 
to  sit  by  her  side  hereafter  in  Valhalla,  when 
the  champions  ride  forth  to  battle  from  the 
silver  gates,  and  maidens  bear  round  the 
mead-horn  mantled  with  golden  foam. 

VIII 

The  eighth  canto  commences  in  this  wise. 
Ingeborg  sits  in  Balder's  temple,  and  waits 
the  coming  of  Frithiof,  till  the  stars  fade 
away  in  the  morning  sky.  At  length  he 
arrives,  wild  and  haggard.  He  comes  from 
the  Ting,  or  council,  where  he  has  offered  his 
hand  in  reconciliation  to  King  Helge,  and 
again  asked  of  him  his  sister  in  marriage, 
before  the  assembly  of  the  warriors.  A  thou 
sand  swords  hammered  applause  upon  a  thou 
sand  shields,  and  the  ancient  Hilding  with 


Frithiofs  Saga  85 

his  silver  beard  stepped  forth  and  held  a  talk 
full  of  wisdom,  in  short,  pithy  language,  that 
sounded  like  the  blows  of  a  sword.  But  all 
in  vain.  King  Helge  says  him  nay,  and 
brings  against  him  an  accusation  of  having 
profaned  the  temple  of  Balder  by  daring  to 
visit  Ingeborg  there.  Death  or  banishment 
is  the  penalty  of  the  law ;  but  instead  of  be 
ing  sentenced  to  the  usual  punishment,  Fri- 
thiof  is  ordered  to  sail  to  the  Orkney  Islands, 
in  order  to  force  from  Jarl  Angantyr  the  pay 
ment  of  an  annual  tribute,  which  since  Bele's 
death  he  has  neglected  to  pay.  All  this  does 
Frithiof  relate  to  Ingeborg,  and  urges  her  to 
escape  with  him  to  the  lands  of  the  South, 
where  the  sky  is  clearer,  and  the  mild  stars 
shall  look  down  with  friendly  glance  upon 
them  through  the  warm  summer  nights.  By 
the  light  of  the  winter-evening's  fire,  old  Thors- 
ten  Vikingsson  had  told  them  tales  of  the  Isles 
of  Greece,  with  their  green  groves  and  shining 
billows  ;  —  where,  amid  the  ruins  of  marble 
temples,  flowers  grow  from  the  runes  that 
utter  forth  the  wisdom  of  the  past,  and  golden 
apples  glow  amid  the  leaves,  and  red  grapes 
hang  from  every  twig.  All  is  prepared  for 
their  flight ;  already  Ellida  spreads  her  shad- 


86  Drift-  Wood 

owy  eagle-wings  ;  but  Ingeborg  refuses  to  es 
cape.  King  Bele's  daughter  will  not  deign  to 
steal  her  happiness.  In  a  beautiful  and  pas 
sionate  appeal,  she  soothes  her  lover's  wounded 
pride,  and  at  length  he  resolves  to  undertake 
the  expedition  to  Jarl  Angantyr.  He  gives 
her  the  golden  arm-ring  of  Vaulunder,  and 
they  part,  she  with  mournful  forebodings,  and 
he  with  ardent  hope  of  ultimate  success.  This 
part  of  the  poem  is  a  dramatic  sketch  in  blank 
verse.  It  is  highly  wrought,  and  full  of  poetic 
beauties. 

IX 

Ingeborg's  Lament  is  the  subject  of  the 
ninth  canto.  She  sits  by  the  seaside,  and 
watches  the  westward-moving  sail,  and  speaks 
to  the  billows  blue,  and  the  stars,  and  to  Fri- 
thiof's  falcon,  that  sits  upon  her  shoulder, — 
the  gallant  bird  whose  image  she  has  worked 
into  her  embroidery,  with  wings  of  silver  and 
golden  claws.  She  tells  him  to  greet  again 
and  again  her  Frithiof,  when  he  returns  and 
weeps  by  her  grave. 

x 

And  now  follows  the  ballad  of  Frithiof  at 


Frithiof' s  Saga  87 

Sea ;  one  of  the  most  spirited  and  character 
istic  cantos  of  the  poem.  The  versincation? 
likewise,  is  managed  with  great  skill  ;  each 
strophe  consisting  of  three  several  parts,  each 
in  its  respective  metre.  King  Helge  stands 
by  the  sea-shore  and  prays  to  the  fiends  for 
a  tempest ;  and  soon  Frithiof  hears  the  wings 
of  the  storm  flapping  in  the  distance,  and,  as 
wind-cold  Ham  and  snowy  Heid  beat  against 
the  flanks  of  his  ship,  he  sings  :  — 

"  Fairer  was  the  journey, 
In  the  moonbeam's  shimmer, 
O'er  the  mirrored  waters 
Unto  Balder's  grove ; 
Warmer  than  it  here  is, 
Close  by  Ingeborg's  bosom  ;  — 
Whiter  than  the  sea-foam 
Swelled  the  maiden's  breast." 

But  the  tempest  waxes  sore  ;  —  it  screams 
in  the  shrouds,  and  cracks  in  the  keel,  and 
the  dragon-ship  leaps  from  wave  to  wave  like 
a  goat  from  cliff  to  cliff.  Frithiof  fears  that 
witchcraft  is  at  work  ;  and  calling  Bjorn,  he 
bids  him  gripe  the  tiller  with  his  bear-paw 
while  he  climbs  the  mast  to  look  out  upon 
the  sea.  From  aloft  he  sees  the  two  fiends 
riding  on  a  whale  ;  Heid  with  snowy  skin, 
and  in  shape  like  a  white  bear,  —  Ham  with 


88  Drift-wood 

outspread,  sounding  wings,  like  the  eagle  of 
the  storm.  A  battle  with  these  sea-monsters 
ensues.  Ellida  hears  the  hero's  voice,  and 
with  her  copper  keel  smites  the  whale  so 
that  he  dies  ;  and  the  whale-riders  learn  how 
bitter  it  is  to  bite  blue  steel,  being  transfixed 
with  Northern  spears  hurled  from  a  hero's 
hand.  And  thus  the  storm  is  stilled,  and 
Frithiof  reaches  at  length  the  shores  of  An- 
gantyr. 

XI 

In  the  eleventh  canto  Jarl  Angantyr  sits  in 
his  ancestral  hall  carousing  with  his  friends. 
In  merry  mood  he  looks  forth  upon  the  sea, 
where  the  sun  is  sinking  into  the  waves  like 
a  golden  swan.  At  the  window  the  ancient 
Halvar  stands  sentinel,  watchful  alike  of  things 
within  doors  and  without ;  for  ever  and  anon 
he  drains  the  mead-horn  to  the  bottom,  and, 
uttering  never  a  word,  thrusts  the  empty  horn 
in  at  the  window  to  be  filled  anew.  At  length 
he  announces  the  arrival  of  a  tempest-tost  ship ; 
and  Jarl  Angantyr  looks  forth,  and  recognizes 
the  dragon-ship  Ellida,  and  Frithiof,  the  son  of 
his  friend.  No  sooner  has  he  made  this  known 
to  his  followers,  than  the  Viking  Atle  springs 


Frithiof's  Saga  89 

up  from  his  seat  and  screams  aloud  :  "  Now 
will  I  test  the  truth  of  the  tale  that  Frithiof 
can  blunt  the  edge  of  hostile  sword,  and  never 
begs  for  quarter."  Accordingly  he  and  twelve 
other  champions  seize  their  arms,  and  rush 
down  to  the  sea-shore  to  welcome  the  stranger 
with  warlike  sword-play.  A  single  combat  en 
sues  between  Frithiof  and  Atle.  Both  shields 
are  cleft  in  twain  at  once  ;  Angurvadel  bites 
full  sharp,  and  Atle's  sword  is  broken.  Fri 
thiof,  disdaining  an  unequal  contest,  throws  his 
own  away,  and  the  combatants  wrestle  together 
unarmed.  Atle  falls  ;  and  Frithiof,  as  he  plants 
his  knee  upon  the  breast  of  his  foe,  says  that, 
if  he  had  his  sword,  the  Viking  should  feel  its 
sharp  edge  and  die.  The  haughty  Atle  bids 
him  go  and  recover  his  sword,  promising  to  lie 
still  and  await  death,  which  promise  he  fulfils. 
Frithiof  seizes  Angurvadel,  and  when  he  re 
turns  to  smite  the  prostrate  Viking,  he  is  so 
moved  by  his  courage  and  magnanimity  that 
he  stays  the  blow,  seizes  the  hand  of  the  fallen, 
and  they  return  together  as  friends  to  the  ban 
quet-hall  of  Angantyr.  This  hall  is  adorned 
with  more  than  wonted  splendor.  Its  walls 
are  not  wainscoted  with  roughhewn  planks, 
but  covered  with  gold-leather,  stamped  with 


90  Drift-Wood 

flowers  and  fruits.  No  hearth  glows  in  the 
centre  of  the  floor,  but  a  marble  fireplace  leans 
against  the  wall.  There  is  glass  in  the  win 
dows,  there  are  locks  on  the  doors ;  and  in 
stead  of  torches,  silver  chandeliers  stretch  forth 
their  arms  with  lights  over  the  banquet-table, 
whereon  is  a  hart  roasted  whole,  with  larded 
haunches,  and  gilded  hoofs  lifted  as  if  to  leap, 
and  green  leaves  on  its  branching  antlers. 
Behind  each  warrior's  seat  stands  a  maiden, 
like  a  star  behind  a  stormy  cloud.  And  high 
on  his  royal  chair  of  silver,  with  helmet  shining 
like  the  sun,  and  breastplate  inwrought  with 
gold,  and  mantle  star-spangled,  and  trimmed 
with  purple  and  ermine,  sits  the  Viking  An- 
gantyr,  Jarl  of  the  Orkneys.  With  friendly 
salutations  he  welcomes  the  son  of  Thorsten, 
and  in  a  goblet  of  Sicilian  wine,  foaming  like 
the  sea,  drinks  to  the  memory  of  the  departed  ; 
while  Scalds,  from  the  hills  of  Morven,  sing 
heroic  songs.  Frithiof  relates  to  him  his  ad 
ventures  at  sea,  and  makes  known  the  object 
of  his  mission  ;  whereupon  Angantyr  declares, 
that  he  was  never  tributary  to  King  Bele  ; 
that,  although  he  pledged  him  in  the  wine-cup, 
he  was  not  subject  to  his  laws  ;  that  his  sons 
he  knew  not ;  but  that,  if  they  wished  to  levy 


Frithiofs  Saga  91 

tribute,  they  must  do  it  with  the  sword,  like 
men.  And  then  he  bids  his  daughter  bring 
from  her  chamber  a  richly  embroidered  purse, 
which  he  fills  with  golden  coins  of  foreign 
mint,  and  gives  to  Frithiof  as  a  pledge  of  wel 
come  and  hospitality.  And  Frithiof  remains 
his  guest  till  spring. 

XII 

In  the  twelfth  canto  we  have  a  description 
of  Frithiofs  return  to  his  native  land.  He 
finds  his  homestead  at  Framnas  laid  waste  by 
fire  ;  house,  fields,  and  ancestral  forests  are  all 
burnt  over.  As  he  stands  amid  the  ruins,  his 
falcon  perches  on  his  shoulder,  his  dog  leaps 
to  welcome  him,  and  his  snow-white  steed 
comes  with  limbs  like  a  hind  and  neck  like  a 
swan.  He  will  have  bread  from  his  master's 
hands.  At  length  old  Hilding  appears  from 
among  the  ruins,  and  tells  a  mournful  tale  ; 
how  a  bloody  battle  had  been  fought  be 
tween  King  Ring  and  Helge  ;  how  Helge 
and  his  host  had  been  routed,  and  in  their 
flight  through  Framnas,  from  sheer  malice, 
had  laid  waste  the  lands  of  Frithiof;  and 
finally,  how,  to  save  their  crown  and  kingdom, 
the  brothers  had  given  Ingeborg  to  be  the 


92  Drift-  Wood 

bride  of  King  Ring.  He  describes  the  bridal, 
as  the  train  went  up  to  the  temple,  with  vir 
gins  in  white,  and  men  with  swords,  and 
Scalds,  and  the  pale  bride  seated  on  a  black 
steed  like  a  spirit  on  a  cloud.  At  the  altar 
the  fierce  Helge  had  torn  the  bracelet,  the  gift 
of  Frithiof,  from  Ingeborg's  arm,  and  adorned 
with  it  the  image  of  Balder.  And  Frithiof 
remembers  that  it  is  now  mid-summer,  and 
festival  time  in  Balder's  temple.  Thither  he 
directs  his  steps. 

XIII 

The  sun  stands,  at  midnight,  blood-red  on 
the  mountains  of  the  North.  It  is  not  day,  it 
is  not  night,  but  something  between  the  two. 
The  fire  blazes  on  the  altar  in  the  temple  of 
Balder.  Priests  with  silver  beards  and  knives 
of  flint  in  their  hands  stand  there,  and  King 
Helge  with  his  crown.  A  sound  of  arms  is 
heard  in  the  sacred  grove  without,  and  a  voice 
commanding  Bjorn  to  guard  the  door.  Then 
Frithiof  rushes  in  like  a  storm  in  autumn. 
"  Here  is  your  tribute  from  the  Western  seas," 
he  cries  ;  "  take  it,  and  then  be  there  a  battle 
for  life  and  death  between  us  twain,  here  by 
the  light  of  Balder's  altar ;  —  shields  behind 


Frithiof' s  Saga  93 

us,  and  bosoms  bare  ;  —  and  the  first  blow  be 
thine,  as  king  ;  but  forget  not  that  mine  is  the 
second.  Look  not  thus  toward  the  door  ;  I  have 
caught  the  fox  in  his  den.  Think  of  Framnas, 
think  of  thy  sister  with  golden  locks  !  "  With 
these  words  he  draws  from  his  girdle  the  purse 
of  Angantyr,  and  throws  it  into  the  face  of  the 
king  with  such  force  that  the  blood  gushes 
from  his  mouth,  and  he  falls  senseless  at  the 
foot  of  the  altar.  Frithiof  then  seizes  the 
bracelet  on  Balder's  arm,  and  in  trying  to 
draw  it  off  he  pulls  the  wooden  statue  from  its 
base,  and  it  falls  into  the  flames  of  the  altar. 
In  a  moment  the  whole  temple  is  in  a  blaze. 
All  attempts  to  extinguish  the  conflagration 
are  vain.  The  fire  is  victorious.  Like  a  red 
bird  the  flame  sits  upon  the  roof,  and  flaps  its 
loosened  wings.  Mighty  was  the  funeral  pyre 
of  Balder  ! 

XIV 

The  fourteenth  canto  is  entitled  Frithiof  in 
Exile.  Frithiof  sits  at  night  on  the  deck  of 
his  ship,  and  chants  a  song  of  welcome  to  the 
sea,  which,  as  a  Viking,  he  vows  to  make  his 
home  in  life  and  his  grave  in  death.  "  Thou 
knowest  naught,"  he  sings,  "  thou  Ocean  free, 


94  Drift -Wood 

of  a   king  who   oppresses   thee   at    his   own 
•rill 

"  Thy  king  is  he 
Among  the  free, 
Who  trembles  never, 
How  high  soever 
Heaves  in  unrest 
Thy  foam-white  breast 
Blue  fields  like  these 
The  hero  please. 
His  keels  go  thorough 
Like  plough  in  the  furrough, 
But  steel-bright  are 
The  seeds  sown  there." 

He  turns  his  prow  from  shore,  and  is 
putting  to  sea,  when  King  Helge,  with  ten 
ships,  comes  sailing  out  to  attack  him.  But 
anon  the  ships  sink  down  into  the  sea,  as  if 
drawn  downward  by  invisible  hands,  and  Hel 
ge  saves  himself  by  swimming  ashore.  Then 
Bjorn  laughed  aloud,  and  told  how  the  night 
before  he  had  bored  holes  in  the  bottom  of 
each  of  Helge's  ships.  But  the  king  now 
stood  on  a  cliff,  and  bent  his  mighty  bow  of 
steel  against  the  rock  with  such  force  that  it 
snapped  in  twain.  And  Frithiof  jeering  cried 
that  it  was  rust  that  had  broken  the  bow,  not 
Helge's  strength  ;  and  to  show  what  nerve 
there  was  in  a  hero's  arm,  he  seized  two  pines, 


Fritkiof's  Saga  95 

large  enough  for  the  masts  of  ships,  but  shaped 
into  oars,  and  rowed  with  such  marvellous 
strength  that  the  two  pines  snapped  in  his 
hands  like  reeds.  And  now  uprose  the  sun, 
and  the  land-breeze  blew  off  shore  ;  and  bid 
ding  his  native  land  farewell,  Frithiof  the  Vi 
king  sailed  forth  to  scour  the  seas. 

xv 

The  fifteenth  canto  contains  the  Viking's 
Code,  the  laws  of  the  pirate-ship.  No  tent 
upon  deck,  no  slumber  in  house ;  but  the 
shield  must  be  the  Viking's  couch,  and  his 
tent  the  blue  sky  overhead.  The  hammer  of 
victorious  Thor  is  short,  and  the  sword  of 
Frey  but  an  ell  in  length  ;  and  the  warrior's 
steel  is  never  too  short  if  he  goes  near  enough 
to  the  foe.  Hoist  high  the  sail  when  the  wild 
storm  blows  ;  't  is  merry  in  stormy  seas  ;  on 
ward  and  ever  onward  ;  he  is  a  coward  who 
strikes  ;  rather  sink  than  strike.  There  shall 
be  neither  maiden  nor  drunken  revelry  on 
board.  The  freighted  merchantman  shall  be 
protected,  but  must  not  refuse  his  tribute  to 
the  Viking ;  for  the  Viking  is  king  of  the 
waves,  and  the  merchant  a  slave  to  gain,  and 
the  steel  of  the  brave  is  as  good  as  the  gold 


96  Drift-Wood 

of  the  rich.  The  plunder  shall  be  divided  on 
deck,  by  lot  and  the  throwing  of  dice  ;  but  in 
this  the  sea-king  takes  no  share ;  glory  is  his 
prize  ;  he  wants  none  other.  They  shall  be 
valiant  in  fight,  and  merciful  to  the  conquered  ; 
for  he  who  begs  for  quarter  has  no  longer  a 
sword,  is  no  man's  foe  ;  and  Prayer  is  a  child 
of  Valhalla,  —  they  must  listen  to  the  voice  of 
the  pale  one.  With  such  laws  sailed  the  Vi 
king  over  the  foaming  sea  for  three  weary 
years,  and  came  at  length  to  the  Isles  of 
Greece,  which  in  days  of  yore  his  father  had 
so  oft  described  to  him,  and  whither  he  had 
wished  to  flee  with  Ingeborg.  And  thus  the 
forms  of  the  absent  and  the  dead  rose  up 
before  him,  and  seemed  to  beckon  him  to  his 
home  in  the  North.  He  is  weary  of  sea-fights, 
and  of  hewing  men  in  twain,  and  the  glory 
of  battle.  The  flag  at  the  mast-head  pointed 
northward  ;  there  lay  the  beloved  land ;  he 
resolved  to  follow  the  course  of  the  winds  of 
heaven,  and  steer  back  again  to  the  North. 

XVI 

Canto  sixteenth  is  a  dialogue  between  Fri- 
thiof  and  his  friend  Bjorn,  in  which  the  latter 
gentleman  exhibits  some  of  the  rude  and  un- 


Frithiof 's  Saga  97 

civilized  tastes  of  his  namesake,  Bruin  the 
Bear.  They  have  again  reached  the  shores 
of  their  fatherland.  Winter  is  approaching. 
The  sea  begins  to  freeze  around  their  keel. 
Frithiof  is  weary  of  a  Viking's  life.  He  wishes 
to  pass  the  Yule-tide  on  land,  and  to  visit 
King  Ring  and  his  bride  of  the  golden  locks, 
his  beloved  Ingeborg.  Bjorn,  dreaming  all 
the  while  of  bloody  exploits,  offers  himself  as 
a  companion,  and  talks  of  firing  the  king's 
palace  at  night,  and  bearing  off  the  queen  by 
force.  Or  if  his  friend  deems  the  old  king 
worthy  of  a  holmgtng,*  or  of  a  battle  on  the 
ice,  he  is  ready  for  either.  But  Frithiof  tells 
him  that  only  gentle  thoughts  now  fill  his 
bosom.  He  wishes  only  to  take  a  last  fare 
well  of  Ingeborg.  These  delicate  feelings  can 
not  penetrate  the  hirsute  breast  of  Bruin.  He 
knows  not  what  this  love  may  be  ;  —  this  sigh 
ing  and  sorrow  for  a  maiden's  sake.  The 
world,  he  says,  is  full  of  maidens  ;  and  he 
offers  to  bring  Frithiof  a  whole  ship-load  from 

*  A  duel  between  the  Vikings  of  the  North  was  called  a 
holmgang,  because  the  two  combatants  met  on  an  island  to  de 
cide  their  quarrel.  Fierce  battles  were  likewise  fought  by 
armies  on  the  ice  :  the  frozen  bays  and  lakes  of  a  mountainous 
country  being  oftentimes  the  only  plains  large  enough  for 
battle-fields. 


98  Drift -Wood 

the  glowing  South,  all  red  as  roses  and  gentle 
as  lambs.  But  Frithiof  will  not  stay.  He  re 
solves  to  go  to  King  Ring  ;  but  not  alone,  for 
his  sword  goes  with  him. 

XVII 

The  seventeenth  canto  relates  how  King 
Ring  sat  in  his  banquet-hall  at  Yule-tide  and 
drank  mead.  At  his  side  sat  Ingeborg  his 
queen,  like  Spring  by  the  side  of  Autumn. 
And  an  old  man,  and  unknown,  all  wrapped 
in  skins,  entered  the  hall,  and  humbly  took 
his  seat  near  the  door.  And  the  courtiers 
looked  at  each  other  with  scornful  smiles,  and 
pointed  with  the  finger  at  the  hoary  bear-skin 
man.  At  this  the  stranger  waxed  angry,  and 
seizing  with  one  hand  a  young  coxcomb,  he 
"  twirled  him  up  and  down."  The  rest  grew 
silent ;  he  would  have  done  the  same  with 
them.  "  Who  breaks  the  peace  ? "  quoth  the 
king.  "Tell  us  who  thou  art,  and  whence, 
old  man."  And  the  old  man  answered, 

"  In  Anguish  was  I  nurtured,  Want  is  my  homestead  hight, 
Now  come  I  from  the  Wolf's  den,  I  slept  with  him  last 
night" 

But  King  Ring  is  not  so  easily  duped,  and 
bids  the  stranger  lay  aside  his  disguise.  And 


Frithiof  s  Saga  99 

straight  the  shaggy  bear-skin  fell  from  the 
head  of  the  unknown  guest,  and  down  from 
his  lofty  forehead,  over  his  shoulders  broad 
and  full,  floated  his  shining  ringlets  like  a 
wave  of  gold.  Frithiof  stood  before  them  in 
a  rich  mantle  of  blue  velvet,  with  a  hand- 
broad  silver  belt  around  his  waist ;  and  the 
color  came  and  went  in  the  cheek  of  the 
queen  like  the  Northern  light  on  fields  of 
snow, 

"And  as  two  water-lilies,  beneath  the  tempest's  might, 
Lie  heaving  on  the  billow,  so  heaved  her  bosom  white." 

And  now  a  horn  blew  in  the  hall,  and  kneel 
ing  on  a  silver  dish,  with  haunch  and  shoulder 
hung  "  with  garlands  gay  and  rosemary,"  and 
holding  an  apple  in  his  mouth,  the  wild-boar 
was  brought  in.* 

And  King  Ring  rose  up  in  his  hoary  locks, 
and,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  boar's  head, 
swore  an  oath  that  he  would  conquer  Frithiof, 

*  "  The  old  English  custom  of  the  boar's  head  at  Christmas 
dates  from  a  far  antiquity.  It  was  in  use  at  the  festivals  of 
Yule-tide  among  the  pagan  Northmen.  The  words  of  Chau 
cer  in  the  Franklein's  Tale  will  apply  to  the  old  hero  of  the 
North :  — 

"And  he  drinketh  of  his  bugle-horn  the  wine, 
Before  him  standeth  the  brawne  of  the  tusked  swine." 


ioo  Drift-Wood 

the  great  champion,  so  help  him  Frey  and 
Odin,  and  the  mighty  Thor.  With  a  disdain 
ful  smile  Frithiof  threw  his  sword  upon  the 
table  so  that  the  hall  echoed  to  the  clang,  and 
every  warrior  sprang  up  from  his  seat,  and 
turning  to  the  king  he  said :  "  Young  Frithiof 
is  my  friend  ;  I  know  him  well,  and  I  swear  to 
protect  him,  were  it  against  the  world ;  so 
help  me  Destiny  and  my  good  sword."  The 
king  was  pleased  at  this  great  freedom  of 
speech,  and  invited  the  stranger  to  remain 
their  guest  till  spring  ;  bidding  Ingeborg  fill  a 
goblet  with  the  choicest  wine  for  the  stranger. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  trembling  hand  she 
presented  Frithiof  a  goblet,  which  two  men,  as 
men  are  now,  could  not  have  drained  ;  but  he, 
in  honor  of  his  lady-love,  quaffed  it  at  a  single 
draught.  And  then  the  Scald  took  his  harp 
and  sang  the  song  of  Hagbart  and  Fair  Signe, 
the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the  North.  And  thus 
the  Yule-carouse  was  prolonged  far  into  the 
night,  and  the  old  fellows  drank  deep,  till  at 
length 

"  They  all  to  sleep  departed,  withouten  pain  or  care, 
But  old  King  Ring,  the  graybeard,  slept  with  Ingeborg  the 
fair." 


Frithiofs  Saga  101 

XVIII 

The  next  canto  describes  a  sledge-ride  on 
the  ice.  It  has  a  cold  breath  about  it.  The 
short,  sharp  stanzas  are  like  the  angry  gusts 
of  a  northwester. 

"  King  Ring  with  his  queen  to  the  banquet  did  farq, 
On  the  lake  stood  the  ice  so  mirror-clear. 

"  '  Fare  not  o'er  the  ice, '  the  stranger  cries  ; 
'  It  will  burst,  and  full  deep  the  cold  bath  lies.' 

"  'The  king  drowns  not  easily,'  Ring  outspake  ; 
'  He  who 's  afraid  may  go  round  the  lake.' 

"  Threatening  and  dark  looked  the  stranger  round, 
His  steel  shoes  with  haste  on  his  feet  he  bound. 

"  The  sledge -horse  starts  forth  strong  and  free  ; 
He  snorteth  flames,  so  glad  is  he. 

"  '  Strike  out,'  screamed  the  king,  '  my  trotter  good, 
Let  us  see  if  thou  art  of  Sleipner's  *  blood. ' 

"They  go  as  a  storm  goes  over  the  lake, 
No  heed  to  his  queen  doth  the  old  man  take. 

"  But  the  steel-shod  champion  standeth  not  still, 
He  passeth  them  by  as  swift  as  he  will. 

"  He  carves  many  nines  in  the  frozen  tide, 
Fair  Ingeborg  o'er  her  own  name  doth  glide. " 

Thus   they    speed   away  over   the    ice,  but 
beneath  them  the  treacherous   Ran  f  lies  in 

*  The  steed  of  Odin, 

t  A  giantess  holding  dominion  over  the  waters. 


102  Drift-Wood 

ambush.  She  breaks  a  hole  in  her  silver 
roof,  the  sledge  is  sinking,  and  fair  Ingeborg 
is  pale  with  fear,  when  the  stranger  on  his 
skates  comes  sweeping  by  like  a  whirlwind. 
He  seizes  the  steed  by  his  mane,  and  at  a  sin 
gle  pull  places  the  sledge  upon  firm  ice  again. 
They  return  together  to  the  king's  palace, 
where  the  stranger,  who  is  none  else  than 
Frithiof,  remains  a  guest  till  spring. 

XIX 

The  nineteenth  canto  is  entitled  Frithiof's 
Temptation.     It  is  as  follows. 

"Spring  is   coming,  birds  are  twittering,   forests  leaf,    and 

smiles  the  sun, 
And  the  loosened  torrents  downward,  singing,  to  the  ocean 

run  ; 
Glowing  like  the  cheek  of  Freya,  peeping  rosebuds  'gin  to 

ope, 
And  in  human  hearts  awaken  love  of  life,  and  joy,  and 

hope. 

"  Now  will  hunt  the  ancient  monarch,  and  the  queen  shall 

join  the  sport : 
Swarming  in  its  gorgeous  splendor,  is  assembled  all  the 

court ; 
Bows  ring  loud,  and  quivers  rattle,  stallions  paw  the  ground 

alway, 
And,  with  hoods  upon  their  eyelids,  scream  the  falcons  for 

their  prey. 


Frithiof  s  Saga  103 

"  See,  the  Queen  of  the  chase  advances  !     Frithiof,  gaze  not 

at  the  sight ! 
Like  a  star  upon  a  spring-cloud  sits  she  on  her  palfrey 

white. 
Half  of  Freya,*  half  of  Rota,f  yet  more  beauteous  than 

these  two, 
And  from  her  light  hat  of  purple  wave  aloft  the  feathers 

blue. 

"  Gaze  not  at  her  eye's  blue  heaven,  gaze  not  at  her  golden 

hair ! 

O  beware  !  her  waist  is  slender,  full  her  bosom  is,  beware  ! 
Look  not  at  the  rose  and  lily  on  her  cheek  that  shifting 

play, 
List  not  to  the  voice  beloved,  whispering  like  the  wind  of 

May. 

"  Now  the  huntsman's  band  is  ready.  Hurrah  !  over  hill  and 
dale! 

Horns  ring,  and  the  hawks  right  upward  to  the  hall  of  Odin 
sail. 

All  the  dwellers  in  the  forest  seek  in  fear  their  cavern 
homes, 

But,  with  spear  outstretched  before  her,  after  them  the  Val 
kyr  comes." 

The  old  king  cannot  keep  pace  with  the 
chase.  Frithiof  rides  beside  him,  silent  and 
sad.  Gloomy  musings  rise  within  him,  and 

*  The  goddess  of  Love  and  Beauty ;  the  Venus  of  the 
North. 

t  One  of  the  Valkyrs,  or  celestial  virgins,  who  bear  off  the 
souls  of  the  slain  in  battle. 


104  Drift-Wood 

he  hears  continually  the  mournful  voices  of 
his  own  dark  thoughts.  Why  had  he  left  the 
ocean,  where  all  care  is  blown  away  by  the 
winds  of  heaven  ?  Here  he  wanders  amid 
dreams  and  secret  longings.  He  cannot  for 
get  Balder's  grove.  But  the  grim  gods  are 
no  longer  friendly.  They  have  taken  his  rose 
bud  and  placed  it  on  the  breast  of  Winter, 
whose  chill  breath  covers  bud  and  leaf  and 
stalk  with  ice.  And  thus  they  come  to  a 
lonely  valley  shut  in  by  mountains,  and  over 
shadowed  by  beeches  and  alders.  Here  the 
king  alights  ;  the  quiet  of  the  place  invites 
to  slumber. 

"  Then  threw  Frithiof  down  his  mantle,  and  upon  the  green 
sward  spread, 
And  the  ancient  king  so  trustful  laid  on  Frithiof's  knee  his 

head, 

Slept  as  calmly  as  the  hero  sleepeth,  after  war's  alarm, 
On  his  shield,   or  as  an  infant  sleeps  upon  its  mother's 
arm. 

"  As  he  slumbers,  hark  !  there  sings  a  coal-black  bird  upon 

the  bough  : 
'  Hasten,  Frithiof,  slay  the  old  man,  end  your  quarrel  at  a 

blow ; 
Take  his  queen,  for  she  is  thine,  and  once  the  bridal  kiss 

she  gave, 
Now  no  human  eye  beholds  thee,  deep  and  silent  is  the 

grave. ' 


Frithiofs  Saga  105 

"  Frithiof  listens ;  hark  !  there  sings  a  snow-white  bird  upon 

the  bough : 
'  Though  no  human  eye  beholds  thee,  Odin's  eye  beholds 

thee  now. 
Coward  !  wilt  thou  murder  sleep,  and  a  defenceless  old  man 

slay  ! 
Whatsoe'er  thou  winn'st,  thou  canst  not  win  a  hero's  fame 

this  way.' 

"  Thus  the  two  wood-birds  did  warble  :  Frithiof  took  his  war- 
sword  good, 

With  a  shudder  hurled  it  from  him,  far  into  the  gloomy  wood. 

Coal-black  bird  flies  down  to  Nastrand,*  but  on  light,  un 
folded  wings, 

Like  the  tone  of  harps,  the  other,  sounding  towards  the 
sun,  upsprings. 

"  Straight  the  ancient  king  awakens.  '  Sweet  has  been  my 
sleep,'  he  said ; 

'  Pleasantly  sleeps  one  in  the  shadow,  guarded  by  a  brave 
man's  blade. 

But  where  is  thy  sword,  O  stranger  ?  Lightning's  brother, 
where  is  he  ? 

Who  thus  parts  you,  who  should  never  from  each  other  part 
ed  be  !' 

"  '  It  avails  not,'  Frithiof  answered  ;  '  in  the  North  are  other 

swords : 
Sharp,  O  monarch  !  is  the  sword's  tongue,  and  it  speaks  not 

peaceful  words ; 
Murky  spirits  dwell  in  steel  blades,  spirits  from  the  Niffel- 

hem ; 
Slumber  is  not  safe  before  them,  silver  locks  but  anger 

them.'" 

*  The  Strand  of  Corpses ;  a  region  in  the  Niffelhem,  or 
Scandinavian  hell. 


io5  Drift -Wood 

To  this  the  old  king  replies,  that  he  has  not 
been  asleep,  but  has  feigned  sleep,  merely  to 
put  Frithiof — for  he  has  long  recognized  the 
hero  in  his  guest  —  to  the  trial.  He  then  up 
braids  him  for  having  come  to  his  palace  in 
disguise,  to  steal  his  queen  away ;  he  had  ex 
pected  the  coming  of  a  warrior  with  an  army  ; 
he  beheld  only  a  beggar  in  tatters.  But 
now  he  has  proved  him,  and  forgiven  ;  has 
pitied,  and  forgotten.  He  is  soon  to  be  gath 
ered  to  his  fathers.  Frithiof  shall  take  his 
queen  and  kingdom  after  him.  Till  then  he 
shall  remain  his  guest,  and  thus  their  feud 
shall  have  an  end.  But  Frithiof  answers,  that 
he  came  not  as  a  thief  to  steal  away  the  queen, 
but  only  to  gaze  upon  her  face  once  more.  He 
will  remain  no  longer.  The  vengeance  of  the 
offended  gods  hangs  over  him.  He  is  an  out 
law.  On  the  green  earth  he  seeks  no  more  for 
peace ;  for  the  earth  burns  beneath  his  feet, 
and  the  trees  lend  him  no  shadow.  "  There 
fore,"  he  cries,  "  away  to  sea  again  !  Away, 
my  dragon  brave,  to  bathe  again  thy  pitch- 
black  breast  in  the  briny  wave  !  Flap  thy 
white  wings  in  the  clouds,  and  cut  the  billow 
with  a  whistling  sound  ;  fly,  fly,  as  far  as  the 
bright  stars  guide  thee,  and  the  subject  billows 


Fritkiofs  Saga  .  107 

bear.  Let  me  hear  the  lightning's  voice  again  ; 
and  on  the  open  sea,  in  battle,  amid  clang  of 
shields  and  arrowy  rain,  let  me  die,  and  go  up 
to  the  dwelling  of  the  gods  ! " 

xx 

In  the  twentieth  canto  the  death  of  King 
Ring  is  described.  The  sunshine  of  a  pleas 
ant  spring  morning  plays  into  the  palace-hall, 
when  Frithiof  enters  to  bid  his  royal  friends  a 
last  farewell.  With  them  he  bids  his  native 
land  good  night. 

"  No  more  shall  I  see 
In  its  upward  motion 

The  smoke  of  the  Northland.     Man  is  a  slave : 
The  fates  decree. 
On  the  waste  of  the  ocean 
There  is  my  fatherland,  there  is  my  grave. 

"Go  not  to  the  strand, 
Ring,  with  thy  bride, 

After  the  stars  spread  their  light  through  the  sky. 
Perhaps  in  the  sand, 
Washed  up  by  the  tide, 
The  bones  of  the  outlawed  Viking  may  lie. 

"  Then,  quoth  the  king, 
"Tis  mournful  to  hear 
A  man  like  a  whimpering  maiden  cry. 
The  death-song  they  sing 
Even  now  in  mine  ear. 
What  avails  it  ?    He  who  is  born  must  die.' " 


io8  .     Drift-Wood 

He  then  says  that  he  himself  is  about  to  de 
part  for  Valhalla ;  that  a  death  on  the  straw 
becomes  not  a  King  of  the  Northmen.  He 
would  fain  die  the  death  of  a  hero  ;  and  he 
cuts  on  his  arms  and  breasts  the  runes  of 
death,  —  runes  to  Odin.  And  while  the  blood 
drops  from  among  the  silvery  hairs  of  his  na 
ked  bosom,  he  calls  for  a  flowing  goblet,  and 
drinks  a  health  to  the  glorious  North  ;  and  in 
spirit  hears  the  Gjallar  Horn,*  and  goes  to 
Valhalla,  where  glory,  like  a  golden  helmet, 
crowns  the  coming  guest. 

XXI 

The  next  canto  is  the  Drapa,  or  Dirge  of 
King  Ring,  in  the  unrhymed  alliterative  stan 
zas  of  the  old  Icelandic  poetry.  The  Scald 
sings  how  the  high-descended  monarch  sits  in 
his  tomb,  with  his  shield  on  his  arm  and  his 
battle-sword  by  his  side.  His  gallant  steed, 
too,  neighs  in  the  tomb,  and  paws  the  ground 
with  his  golden  hoofs.f  But  the  spirit  of  the 

*  The  Gjallar  Horn  was  blown  by  Heimdal,  the  watchman 
of  the  gods.  He  was  the  son  of  nine  virgins,  and  was  called 
"the  God  with  the  Golden  Teeth."  His  watch-tower  was 
upon  the  rainbow,  and  he  blew  his  horn  whenever  a  fallen 
hero  rode  over  the  Bridge  of  Heaven  to  Valhalla. 

f  It  was  a  Scandinavian,  as  well  as  a  Scythian  custom,  to 


Frithiof's  Saga  109 

departed  rides  over  the  rainbow,  which  bends 
beneath  its  burden,  up  to  the  open  gates  of 
Valhalla.  Here  the  gods  receive  him,  and 
garlands  are  woven  for  him  of  golden  grain 
with  blue  flowers  intermingled,  and  Brage 
sings  a  song  of  praise  and  welcome  to  the 
wise  old  Ring. 

"Now  rideth  royal 
Ring  over  Bifrost,  * 
Sways  with  the  burden 
The  bending  bridge. 
Open  spring  Valhall's 
Vaulted  doors  widely ; 
Asanar'sf  hands  are 
Hanging  in  his. 

"Brage,  the  graybeard, 
Gripeth  the  gold  string, 
Stiller  now  soundeth 
Song  than  before. 
Listening  leaneth 
Vanadi's  J  lovely 
Breast  at  the  banquet, 
Burning  to  hear. 

"  '  High  sings  the  sword-blade 
Steady  on  helmet ; 
Boisterous  the  billows,  and 
Bloody  alway. 

bury  the  favorite  steed  of  a  warrior  in  the  same  tomb  with 
him. 
*  The  rainbow.  +  The  great  gods.  J  Freya. 


i  io  Drift -Wood 

Strength,  of  the  gracious 
Gods  is  the  gift,  and 
Bitter  as  Berserk 
Biteth  in  shield. 

"  '  Welcome,  thou  wise  one, 
Heir  of  Valhalla ! 
Long  learn  the  Northland 
Laud  to  thy  name. 
Brage  doth  hail  thee, 
Honored  with  horn-drink, 
Nornorna's  herald 
Now  from  the  North. ' " 

XXII 

The  twenty-second  canto  describes,  in  a 
very  spirited  and  beautiful  style,  the  election 
of  a  new  king.  The  yeoman  takes  his  sword 
from  the  wall,  and,  with  clang  of  shields  and 
sound  of  arms,  the  people  gather  together  in  a 
public  assembly,  or  Ting,  whose  roof  is  the  sky 
of  heaven.  Here  Frithiof  harangues  them, 
bearing  aloft  on  his  shield  the  little  son  of 
Ring,  who  sits  there  like  a  king  on  his  throne, 
or  a  young  eagle  on  the  cliff,  gazing  upward 
at  the  sun.  Frithiof  hails  him  as  King  of  the 
Northmen,  and  swears  to  protect  his  kingdom  ; 
and  when  the  little  boy,  tired  of  sitting  on  the 
shield,  leaps  fearlessly  to  the  ground,  the  peo 
ple  raise  a  shout,  and  acknowledge  him  for 


Fritkiofs  Saga  in 

their  monarch,  and  Jarl  Frithiof  as  regent  till 
the  boy  grows  older.  But  Frithiof  has  other 
thoughts  than  these.  He  must  away  to  meet 
the  Fates  at  Balder's  ruined  temple,  and  make 
atonement  to  the  offended  god.  And  thus  he 
departs. 

XXIII 

Canto  twenty-third  is  entitled  Frithiof  at 
his  Father's  Grave.  The  sun  is  sinking  like  a 
golden  shield  in  the  ocean,  and  the  hills  and 
vales  around  him,  and  the  fragrant  flowers, 
and  song  of  birds,  and  sound  of  the  sea,  and 
shadow  of  trees,  awaken  in  his  softened  heart 
the  memory  of  other  days.  And  he  calls 
aloud  to  the  gods  for  pardon  of  his  crime,  and 
to  the  spirit  of  his  father  that  he  should  come 
from  his  grave  and  bring  him  peace  and  for 
giveness  from  the  city  of  the  gods.  And  lo  ! 
amid  the  evening  shadows,  from  the  western 
wave  uprising,  landward  floats  the  Fata  Mor 
gana,  and,  sinking  down  upon  the  spot  where 
Balder's  temple  once  stood,  assumes  itself  the 
form  of  a  temple,  with  columns  of  dark  blue 
steel,  and  an  altar  of  precious  stone.  At  the 
door,  leaning  upon  their  shields,  stand  the  Des 
tinies.  And  the  Destiny  of  the  Past  points  to 


H2  Drift -Wood 

the  solitude  around,  and  the  Destiny  of  the 
Future  to  a  beautiful  temple  newly  risen  from 
the  sea.  While  Frithiof  gazes  in  wonder  at 
the  sight,  all  vanishes  away,  like  a  vision  of 
the  night.  But  the  vision  is  interpreted  by 
the  hero  without  the  aid  of  prophet  or  of  sooth 
sayer. 

XXIV 

Canto  twenty-fourth  is  the  Atonement  The 
temple  of  Balder  has  been  rebuilt,  and  with 
such  magnificence  that  the  North  beholds  in 
it  an  image  of  Valhalla.  And  two  by  two,  in 
solemn  procession,  walk  therein  the  twelve 
virgins,  clad  in  garments  of  silver  tissue,  with 
roses  upon  their  cheeks,  and  roses  in  their  in 
nocent  hearts.  They  sing  a  solemn  song  of 
Balder,  how  much  beloved  he  was  by  all  that 
lived,  and  how  he  fell,  by  Hoder's  arrow  slain, 
and  earth  and  sea  and  heaven  wept.  And  the 
sound  of  the  song  is  not  like  the  sound  of  a 
human  voice,  but  like  the  tones  which  come 
from  the  halls  of  the  gods  ;  like  the  thoughts 
of  a  maiden  dreaming  of  her  lover,  when  the 
nightingale  is  singing  in  the  midnight  still 
ness,  and  the  moon  shines  over  the  beech- 
trees  of  the  North.  Frithiof  listens  to  the 


Frithiofs  Saga  113 

song ;  and  as  he  listens,  all  thoughts  of  ven 
geance  and  of  human  hate  melt  within  him, 
as  the  icy  breastplate  melts  from  the  bosom  of 
the  fields  when  the  sun  shines  in  spring.  At 
this  moment  the  high-priest  of  Balder  enters, 
venerable  with  his  long,  silver  beard  ;  and,  wel 
coming  the  Viking  to  the  temple  he  has  built, 
he  delivers  for  his  special  edification  a  long 
homily  on  things  human  and  divine,  with  a 
short  catechism  of  Northern  mythology.  He 
tells  him,  likewise,  very  truly,  that  more  ac 
ceptable  to  the  gods  than  the  smoke  of  burnt- 
offerings  is  the  'sacrifice  of  one's  own  vindic 
tive  spirit,  the  hate  of  a  human  soul ;  and  then 
speaks  of  the  Virgin's  Son,  — 

"Sent  by  All-father  to  declare  aright  the  nines 
On  Destiny's  black  shield-rim,  unexplained  till  now. 
Peace  was  his  battle-cry,  and  his  white  sword  was  love, 
And  innocence  sat  dove-like  on  his  silver  helm. 
Holy  he  lived  and  taught,  he  died  and  he  forgave, 
And  under  distant  palm-trees  stands  his  grave  in  light. 
His  doctrine,  it  is  said,  wanders  from  dale  to  dale, 
Melting  the  hard  of  heart,  and  laying  hand  in  hand, 
And  builds  the  realm  of  Peace  on  the  atoned  earth. 
I  do  not  know  his  lore  aright,  but  darkly  still 
In  better  hours  I  have  presentiment  thereof, 
And  every  human  heart  feeleth  alike  with  mine. 
One  day,  that  know  I,  shall  it  come,  and  lightly  wave 
Its  white  and  dove-like  wings  over  the  Northern  hills. 


ii4  Drift -Wood 

But  there  shall  be  no  more  a  North  for  us  that  day, 

And  oaks  shall  whisper  soft  o'er  the  graves  of  the  forgotten. " 

He  then  .  speaks  of  Frithiof's  hatred  to 
Bele's  sons ;  and  tells  him  that  Helge  is  dead, 
and  that  Halfdan  sits  alone  on  Bele's  throne, 
urging  him  at  the  same  time  to  sacrifice  to 
the  gods  his  desire  of  vengeance,  and  proffer 
the  hand  of  friendship  to  the  young  king. 
This  is  done  straightway,  Halfdan  opportune 
ly  coming  in  at  that  moment ;  and  the  priest 
removes  forthwith  the  ban  from  the  Varg-i- 
Veum,  the  sacrilegious  and  outlawed  man. 
And  then  Ingeborg  enters  the  vaulted  temple, 
followed  by  maidens,  as  the  moon  is  followed 
by  stars  in  the  vaulted  sky  ;  and  from  the 
hand  of  her  brother  Frithiof  receives  the  bride 
of  his  youth,  and  they  are  married  in  Balder's 
temple. 

And  here  endeth  the  Legend  of  Frithiof  the 
Valiant,  the  noblest  poetic  contribution  which 
Sweden  has  yet  made  to  the  literary  history  of 
the  world. 


TWICE-TOLD   TALES 

1837 

WHEN  a  new  star  rises  in  the  heavens, 
people  gaze  after  it  for  a  season  with 
the  naked  eye,  and  with  such  telescopes  as 
they  can  find.  In  the  stream  of  thought  which 
flows  so  peacefully  deep  and  clear  through  the 
pages  of  this  book,  we  see  the  bright  reflection 
of  a  spiritual  star,  after  which  men  will  be  fain 
to  gaze  "  with  the  naked  eye,  and  with  the  spy 
glasses  of  criticism."  This  star  is  but  newly 
risen  ;  and  erelong  the  observations  of  numer 
ous  star-gazers,  perched  upon  arm-chairs  and 
editors'  tables,  will  inform  the  world  of  its 
magnitude  and  its  place  in  the  heaven  of 
poetry,  whether  it  be  in  the  paw  of  the  Great 
Bear,  or  on  the  forehead  of  Pegasus,  or  on  the 
strings  of  the  Lyre,  or  in  the  wing  of  the 
Eagle.  My  own  observations  are  as  follows. 

To  this  little  work  let  us  say,  as  was  said  to 
Sidney's  Arcadia :  "  Live  ever,  sweet,  sweet 
book  !  the  simple  image  of  his  gentle  wit,  and 


ii  6  Drift -Wood 

the  golden  pillar  of  his  noble  courage ;  and 
ever  notify  unto  the  world  that  thy  writer  was 
the  secretary  of  eloquence,  the  breath  of  the 
Muses,  the  honey-bee  of  the  daintiest  flowers 
of  wit  and  art."  It  comes  from  the  hand  of  a 
man  of  genius.  Everything  about  it  has  the 
freshness  of  morning  and  of  May.  These  flow 
ers  and  green  leaves  of  poetry  have  not  the 
dust  of  the  highway  upon  them.  They  have 
been  gathered  fresh  from  the  secret  places  of  a 
peaceful  and  gentle  heart.  There  flow  deep 
waters,  silent,  calm,  and  cool ;  and  the  green 
trees  look  into  them  and  "  God's  blue  heaven." 
This  book,  though  in  prose,  is  written  nev 
ertheless  by  a  poet.  He  looks  upon  all  things 
in  the  spirit  of  love,  and  with  lively  sympa 
thies  ;  for  to  him  external  form  is  but  the  rep 
resentation  of  internal  being,  all  things  having 
a  life,  an  end  and  aim.  The  true  poet  is  a 
friendly  man.  He  takes  to  his  arms  even 
cold  and  inanimate  things,  and  rejoices  in  his 
heart,  as  did  St.  Francis  of  old,  when  he  kissed 
his  bride  of  snow.  To  his  eye  all  things  are 
beautiful  and  holy  ;  all  are  objects  of  feeling 
and  of  song,  from,  the  great  hierarchy  of  the 
silent,  saint-like  stars,  that  rule  the  night,  down 
to  the  little  flowers  which  are  "stars  in  the 
firmament  of  the  earth." 


Twice -To  Id  Tales  117 

It  is  one  of  the  attributes  of  the  poetic  mind 
to  feel  a  universal  sympathy  with  Nature,  both 
in  the  material  world  and  in  the  soul  of  man. 
It  identifies  itself  likewise  with  every  object  of 
its  sympathy,  giving  it  new  sensation  and  poet 
ic  life,  whatever  that  object  may  be,  whether 
man,  bird,  beast,  flower,  or  star.  As  to  the 
pure  mind  all  things  are  pure,  so  to  the  poetic 
mind  all  things  are  poetical.  To  such  souls 
no  age  and  no  country  can  be  utterly  dull  and 
prosaic.  They  make  unto  themselves  their  age 
and  country  ;  dwelling  in  the  universal  mind 
of  man,  and  in  the  universal  forms  of  things. 
Of  such  is  the  author  of  this  book. 

There  are  many  who  think  that  the  ages  of 
poetry  and  romance  are  gone  by.  They  look 
upon  the  Present  as  a  dull,  unrhymed,  and 
prosaic  translation  of  a  brilliant  and  poetic 
Past.  Their  dreams  are  of  the  days  of  eld  ;  of 
the  Dark  Ages,  the  ages  of  Chivalry,  and 
Bards,  and  Troubadours,  and  Minnesingers  ; 
and  the  times  of  which  Milton  says :  "  The 
villages  also  must  have  their  visitors  to  inquire 
what  lectures  the  bagpipe,  and  the  rebbec 
reads  even  to  the  ballatry,  and  the  gammuth 
of  every  municipal  fiddler,  for  these  are  the 
countryman's  Arcadia  and  his  Monte  Mayors." 


n8  Drift -Wood 

We  all  love  ancient  ballads.  Pleasantly  to 
all  ears  sounds  the  voice  of  the  people  in  song, 
swelling  fitfully  through  the  desolate  chambers 
of  the  Past  like  the  wind  of  evening  among 
ruins.  And  yet  this  voice  does  not  persuade 
us  that  the  days  of  balladry  were  more  poetic 
than  our  own.  The  spirit  of  the  Past  pleads 
for  itself,  and  the  spirit  of  the  Present  likewise. 
If  poetry  be  an  element  of  the  human  mind, 
and  consequently  in  accordance  with  nature 
and  truth,  it  would  be  strange  indeed  if,  as  the 
human  mind  advances,  poetry  should  recede. 
The  truth  is,  that,  when  we  look  back  upon 
the  Past,  we  see  only  its  bright  and  poetic 
features.  All  that  is  dull,  prosaic,  and  com 
monplace,  is  lost  in  the  shadowy  distance. 
We  see  the  moated  castle  on  the  hill,  and, 

"  Golden  and  red,  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously  "; 

but  we  see  not  the  valley  below,  where  the 
patient  bondman  toils  like  a  beast  of  burden. 
We  see  the  tree-tops  waving  in  the  wind,  and 
hear  the  merry  birds  singing  under  their  green 
roofs  ;  but  we  forget  that  at  their  roots  there 
are  swine  feeding  upon  acorns.  With  the 
Present  it  is  not  so.  We  stand  too  near  to 
see  objects  in  a  picturesque  light.  What  to 


Twice -To  Id  Tales  119 

others,  at  a  distance,  is  a  bright  and  folded 
summer  cloud,  is  to  us,  who  are  in  it,  a  dismal, 
drizzling  rain.  Thus  has  it  been  since  the 
world  began.  Ours  is  not  the  only  Present 
which  has  seemed  dull,  commonplace,  and 
prosaic. 

The  truth  is,  the  heaven  of  poetry  and  ro 
mance  still  lies  around  us  and  within  us.  So 
long  as  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  the  ele 
ments  of  poetry  and  romance  will  not  be  want 
ing  in  common  life.  If,  invisible  ourselves,  we 
could  follow  a  single  human  being  through  a 
single  day  of  his  life,  and  know  all  his  secret 
thoughts  and  hopes  and  anxieties,  his  prayers 
and  tears  and  good  resolves,  his  passionate 
delights  and  struggles  against  temptation, — 
all  that  excites,  and  all  that  soothes  the  heart 
of  man,  —  we  should  have  poetry  enough  to 
fill  a  volume.  Nay,  set  the  imagination  free, 
like  another  bottle-imp,  and  bid  it  lift  for  you 
the  roofs  of  the  city,  street  by  street,  and  after 
a  single  night's  observation  you  may  sit  down 
and  write  poetry  and  romance  for  the  rest  of 
your  life. 

The  Twice-Told  Tales  are  so  called  from 
having  been  first  published  in  various  annuals 
and  magazines,  and  now  collected  together  and 


120  Drift- Wood 

told  a  second  time  in  a  volume.  And  a  very 
delightful  volume  they  make  ;  —  one  of  those 
which  excite  in  you  a  feeling  of  personal  inter 
est  for  the  author.  A  calm,  thoughtful  face 
seems  to  be  looking  at  you  from  every  page, 
with  now  a  pleasant  smile,  and  now  a  shade  of 
sadness  stealing  over  its  features.  Sometimes, 
though  not  often,  it  glares  wildly  at  you,  with 
a  strange  and  painful  expression,  as,  in  the 
German  romance,  the  bronze  knocker  of  the 
Archivarius  Lindhorst  makes  up  faces  at  the 
Student  Anselmus. 

One  of  the  prominent  characteristics  of 
these  tales  is,  that  they  are  national  in  their 
character.  The  author  has  chosen  his  themes 
among  the  traditions  of  New  England  ;  the 
dusty  legends  of  "  the  good  old  Colony  times, 
when  we  lived  uncjer  a  king."  This  is  the 
right  material  for  story.  It  seems  as  natural 
to  make  tales  out  of  old,  tumble-down  tradi 
tions,  as  canes  and  snuff-boxes  out  of  old 
steeples,  or  trees  planted  by  great  men.  The 
dreary,  old  Puritanical  times  begin  to  look  ro 
mantic  in  the  distance.  Who  would  not  like 
to  have  strolled  through  the  city  of  Agamenti- 
cus,  where  a  market  was  held  every  week,  on 
Wednesday,  and  there  were  two  annual  fairs  at 


Twice -Told  Tales  121 

St.  James's  and  St.  Paul's  ?  Who  would  not 
like  to  have  been  present  at  the  court  of  the 
worshipful  Thomas  Gorges,  in  those  palmy 
days  of  the  law  when  Tom  Heard  was  fined 
five  shillings  for  being  drunk,  and  John  Payne 
the  same,  "  for  swearing  one  oath "  ?  Who 
would  not  like  to  have  seen  Thomas  Taylor 
presented  to  the  grand  jury  "for  abusing  Cap 
tain  Raynes,  being  in  authority,  by  thee-ing 
and  thou-ing  him "  ;  and  John  Wardell  like 
wise,  for  denying  Cambridge  College  to  be  an 
ordinance  of  God ;  and  people  fined  for  wink 
ing  at  comely  damsels  in  church  ;  and  others 
for  being  common  sleepers  there  on  the  Lord's 
day  ?  Truly,  many  quaint  and  quiet  customs, 
many  comic  scenes  and  strange  adventures, 
many  wild  and  wondrous  things,  fit  for  humor 
ous  tale  and  soft,  pathetic  story,  lie  all  about 
us  here  in  New  England.  There  is  no  tradi 
tion  of  the  Rhine  nor  of  the  Black  Forest 
which  surpasses  in  beauty  that  of  the  Phantom 
Ship  of  New  Haven.  The  Flying  Dutchman 
of  the  Cape,  and  the  Klabotermann  of  the  Bal 
tic,  are  nowise  superior.  The  story  of  Peter 
Rugg,  the  man  who  could  not  find  Boston,  is 
as  good  as  that  told  by  Gervase  of  Tilbury,  of 
a  man  who  gave  himself  to  the  devils  by  an 


122  Drift-Wood 

unfortunate  imprecation,  and  was  used  by  them 
as  a  wheelbarrow  ;  and  the  Great  Carbuncle 
of  the  White  Mountains  shines  with  no  less 
splendor  than  that  which  illuminated  the  sub 
terranean  palace  in  Rome,  as  related  by  Wil 
liam  of  Malmesbury. 

Another  characteristic  of  this  writer  is  the 
exceeding  beauty  of  his  style.  It  is  as  clear 
as  running  waters.  Indeed  he  uses  words  as 
mere  stepping-stones,  upon  which,  with  a  free 
and  youthful  bound,  his  spirit  crosses  and 
recrosses  the  bright  and  rushing  stream  of 
thought.  Some  writers  of  the  present  day 
have  introduced  a  kind  of  Gothic  architecture 
into  their  style.  All  is  fantastic,  vast,  and 
wondrous  in  the  outward  form,  and  within  is 
mysterious  twilight,  and  the  swelling  sound 
of  an  organ,  and  a  voice  chanting  hymns  in 
Latin,  which  need  a  translation  for  many  of 
the  crowd.  To  this  I  do  not  object.  Let  the 
priest  chant  in  what  language  he  will,  so  long 
as  he  understands  his  own  Mass-book.  But  if 
he  wishes  the  world  to  listen  and  be  edified, 
he  will  do  well  to  choose  a  language  that  is 
generally  understood. 


THE   GREAT    METROPOLIS 

1837 

I  HAVE  an  affection  for  a  great  city.  I 
feel  safe  in  the  neighborhood  of  man,  and 
enjoy  "the  sweet  security  of  streets."  The  ex 
citement  of  the  crowd  is  pleasant  to  me.  I  find 
sermons  in  the  stones  of  the  pavement,  and  in 
the  continuous  sound  of  voices  and  wheels  and 
footsteps  hear  the  "sad  music  of  humanity." 
I  feel  that  life  is  not  a  dream,  but  a  reality  ;  — 
that  the  beings  around  me  are  not  the  insects 
of  an  hour,  but  the  pilgrims  of  an  eternity  ;  each 
with  his  history  of  thousand-fold  occurrences, 
insignificant  it  may  be  to  others,  but  all-impor 
tant  to  himself;  each  with  a  human  heart, 
whose  fibres  are  woven  into  the  great  web  of 
human  sympathies  ;  and  none  so  small  that, 
when  he  dies,  some  of  the  mysterious  meshes 
are  not  broken.  The  green  earth,  and  the  air, 
and  the  sea,  all  living  and  all  lifeless  things, 
preach  the  gospel  of  a  good  providence  ;  but 
most  of  all  does  man,  in  his  crowded  cities, 


124  Drift-Wood 

and  in  his  manifold  powers  and  wants  and  pas 
sions  and  deeds,  preach  this  same  gospel.  The 
greatest  works  of  his  handicraft  delight  me 
hardly  less  than  the  greatest  works  of  Nature. 
They  are  "  the  masterpieces  of  her  own  master 
piece."  Architecture,  and  painting,  and  sculp 
ture,  and  music,  and  epic  poems,  and  all  the 
forms  of  art,  wherein  the  hand  of  genius  is 
visible,  please  me  evermore,  for  they  conduct 
me  into  the  fellowship  of  great  minds.  And 
thus  my  sympathies  are  with  men,  and  streets, 
and  city  gates,  and  towers  from  which  the  great 
bells  sound  solemnly  and  slow,  and  cathedral 
doors,  where  venerable  statues,  holding  books 
in  their  hands,  look  down  like  sentinels  upon 
the  church-going  multitude,  and  the  birds  of 
the  air  come  and  build  their  nests  in  the  arms 
of  saints  and  apostles. 

And  more  than  all  this,  in  great  cities  we 
learn  to  look  the  world  in  the  face.  We  shake 
hands  with  stern  realities.  We  see  ourselves 
in  others.  We  become  acquainted  with  the 
motley,  many-sided  life  of  man  ;  and  finally 
learn,  like  Jean  Paul,  to  "look  upon  a  metrop 
olis  as  a  collection  of  villages ;  a  village  as 
some  blind  alley  in  a  metropolis  ;  fame  as  the 
talk  of  neighbors  at  the  street  door ;  a  library 


The  Great  Metropolis  125 

as  a  learned  conversation ;  joy  as  a  second  ; 
sorrow  as  a  minute  ;  life  as  a  day  ;  and  three 
things  as  all  in  all,  God,  Creation,  Virtue." 

Forty-five  miles  westward  from  the  North 
Sea,  in  the  lap  of  a  broad  and  pleasant  val 
ley  watered  by  the  Thames,  stands  the  Great 
Metropolis.  It  comprises  the  City  of  London 
and  its  Liberties,  with  the  City  and  Liberties 
of  Westminster,  the  Borough  of  Southwark, 
and  upwards  of  thirty  of  the  contiguous  vil 
lages  of  Middlesex  and  .Surrey.  East  and 
west,  its  greatest  length  is  about  eight  miles  ; 
north  and  south,  its  greatest  breadth  about 
five  ;  its  circumference,  from  twenty  to  thirty. 
Its  population  is  estimated  at  two  millions. 
The  vast  living  tide  goes  thundering  through 
its  ten  thousand  streets  in  one  unbroken  roar. 
The  noise  of  the  great  thoroughfares  is  deaf 
ening.  But  you  step  aside  into  a  by-lane,  and 
anon  you  emerge  into  little  green  squares  half 
filled  with  sunshine,  half  with  shade,  where  no 
sound  of  living  thing  is  heard,  save  the  voice 
of  a  bird  or  a  child,  and  amid  solitude  and  si 
lence  you  gaze  in  wonder  at  the  great  trees 
"growing  in  the  heart  of  a  brick-and-mortar 
wilderness."  Then  there  are  the  three  parks, 
Hyde,  Regent's,  and  St.  James's,  where  you 


126  Drift-Wood 

may  lose  yourself  in  green  alleys,  and  dream 
you  are  in  the  country ;  Westminster  Abbey, 
with  its  tombs  and  solemn  cloisters,  where, 
with  George  Herbert,  you  may  think  that, 
"when  the  bells  do  chime,  'tis  angels'  music"; 
and  high  above  all,  half  hidden  in  smoke  and 
vapor,  rises  the  dome  of  St  Paul's. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  more  striking  fea 
tures  of  London.  More  striking  still  is  the 
Thames.  Above  the  town,  by  Kingston  and 
Twickenham,  it  winds  through  groves  and 
meadows  green,  a  rural,  silver  stream.  The 
traveller  who  sees  it  here  for  the  first  time 
can  hardly  believe  that  this  is  the  mighty  river 
which  bathes  the  feet  of  London.  He  asks, 
perhaps,  the  coachman  what  stream  it  is  ;  and 
the  coachman  answers,  with  a  stare  of  wonder 
and  pity,  "The  Thames,  sir."  Pleasure-boats 
are  gliding  back  and  forth,  and  stately  swans 
float,  like  water-lilies,  on  its  bosom.  On  its- 
banks  are  villages  and  church  towers,  beneath 
which,  among  the  patriarchs  of  the  hamlet,  lie 
many  gifted  sons  of  song,  "in  sepulchres  un- 
hearsed  and  green." 

In  and  below  London  the  whole  scene  is 
changed.  Let  us  view  it  by  night.  Lamps  are 
gleaming  along  shore  and  on  the  bridges,  and 


The  Great  Metropolis  127 

a  full  moon  rising  over  the  Borough  of  South- 
wark.  The  moonbeams  silver  the  rippling, 
yellow  tide,  wherein  also  flare  the  shore  lamps 
with  a  lambent,  flickering  gleam.  Barges  and 
wherries  move  to  and  fro  ;  and  heavy-laden 
luggers  are  sweeping  up  stream  with  the  ris 
ing  tide,  swinging  sideways,  with  loose,  flap 
ping  sails.  Both  sides  of  the  river  are  crowded 
with  sea  and  river  craft,  whose  black  hulks  lie 
in  shadow,  and  whose  tapering  masts  rise  up 
into  the  moonlight.  A  distant  sound  of  music 
floats  on  the  air ;  a  harp,  and  a  flute,  and  a 
horn.  It  has  an  unearthly  sound  ;  and  lo ! 
like  a  shooting  star,  a  light  comes  gliding  on. 
It  is  a  signal-lamp  at  the  mast-head  of  a  steam- 
vessel,  that  flits  by,  cloud-like  and  indistinct. 
And  from  all  this  scene  goes  up  a  sound  of 
human  voices,  —  curses,  laughter,  and  singing, 
—  mingled  with  the  monotonous  roar  of  the 
city,  "  the  clashing  and  careering  streams  of 
life,  hurrying  to  lose  themselves  in  the  imper 
vious  gloom  of  eternity." 

And  now  the  midnight  is  past,  and  amid  the 
general  silence  the  clock  strikes,  —  one,  two. 
Far  distant,  from  some  belfry  in  the  suburbs, 
comes  the  first  sound,  so  indistinct  as  hard 
ly  to  be  distinguished  from  the  crowing  of  a 
cock.  Then,  close  at  hand,  the  great  bell  of 


128  Drift-Wood 

St.  Paul's,  with  a  heavy,  solemn  sound,  —  one, 
two.  It  is  answered  from  Southwark  ;  then  at 
a  distance  like  an  echo ;  and  then  all  around 
you,  with  various  and  intermingling  clang, 
like  a  chime  of  bells,  the  clocks  from  a  hun 
dred  belfries  strike  the  hour.  But  the  moon  is 
already  sinking,  large  and  fiery,  through  the 
vapors  of  morning.  It  is  just  in  the  range  of 
the  chimneys  and  house-tops,  and  seems  to 
follow  you  with  speed  as  you  float  down  the 
river  between  unbroken  ranks  of  ships.  Day 
is  dawning  in  the  east,  not  with  a  pale  streak 
in  the  horizon,  but  with  a  silver  light  spread 
through  the  sky  almost  to  the  zenith.  It  is 
the  mingling  of  moonlight  and  daylight.  The 
water  is  tinged  with  a  green  hue,  melting  into 
purple  and  gold,  like  the  brilliant  scales  of 
a  fish.  The  air  grows  cool.  It  comes  fresh 
from  the  eastern  sea,  toward  which  we  are 
swiftly  gliding ;  and,  dimly  seen  in  the  uncer 
tain  twilight,  behind  us  rises 

"  A  mighty  mass  of  brick,  and  smoke,  and  shipping, 

Dirty  and  dusky,  but  as  wide  as  eye 
Can  reach  ;  with  here  and  there  a  sail  just  skipping 

In  sight,  then  lost  amid  the  forestry 
Of  masts  ;  a  wilderness  of  steeples  peeping, 

On  tiptoe,  through  their  sea-coal  canopy  ; 
A  huge  dun  cupola,  like  a  fool's-cap  crown 
On  a  fool's  head  ;  —  and  there  is  London  town. " 


ANGLO-SAXON    LITERATURE 
1838 

WE  read  in  history,  that  the  beauty  of  an 
ancient  manuscript  tempted  King  Al 
fred,  when  a  boy  at  his  mother's  knee,  to  learn 
the  letters  of  the  Saxon  tongue.  A  volume 
which  that  monarch  minstrel  wrote  in  after 
years  now  lies  before  me,  so  beautifully  print 
ed,  that  it  might  tempt  any  one  to  learn  not 
only  the  letters  of  the  Saxon  language,  but  the 
language  also.  The  monarch  himself  is  look 
ing  from  the  ornamented  initial  letter  of  the 
first  chapter.  He  is  crowned  and  care-worn  ; 
having  a  beard,  and  long  flowing  locks,  and 
a  face  of  majesty.  He  seems  to  have  just 
uttered  those  remarkable  words,  with  which 
his  Preface  closes  :  "  And  now  he  prays,  and 
for  God's  name  implores,  every  one  of  those 
ivhom  it  lists  to  read  this  book,  that  he  would 
pray  for  him,  and  not  blame  him,  if  he  more 
rightly  understand  it  than  he  could  ;  for  every 
man  must,  according  to  the  measure  of  his 


130  Drift-Wood 

understanding,  and  according  to  his  leisure, 
speak  that  which  he  speaketh,  and  do  that 
which  he  doeth." 

I  would  fain  hope,  that  the  beauty  of  this 
and  other  Anglo-Saxon  books  may  lead  many 
to  the  study  of  that  venerable  language. 
Through  such  gateways  will  they  pass,  it  is 
true,  into  no  gay  palace  of  song  ;  but  among 
the  dark  chambers  and  mouldering  walls  of 
an  old  national  literature,  weather-stained  and 
in  ruins.  They  will  find,  however,  venerable 
names  recorded  on  those  walls  ;  and  inscrip 
tions,  worth  the  trouble  of  deciphering.  To 
point  out  the  most  curious  and  important  of 
these  is  my  present  purpose  ;  and  according 
to  the  measure  of  my  understanding,  and  ac 
cording  to  my  leisure,  I  speak  that  which  I 
speak. 

The  Anglo-Saxon  language  was  the  lan 
guage  of  our  Saxon  forefathers  in  England, 
though  they  never  gave  it  that  name.  They 
called  it  English.  Thus  King  Alfred  speaks 
of  translating  "  from  book-Latin  into  English"  ; 
Abbot  vElfric  was  requested  by  ^Ethelward 
"  to  translate  the  book  of  Genesis  from  Latin 
into  English  ";  and  Bishop  Leofric,  speaking 
of  the  manuscript  he  gave  to  the  Exeter  Ca- 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature         131 

thedral,  calls  it  "  a  great  English  book."  In 
other  words,  it  is  the  old  Saxon,  a  Gothic 
tongue,  as  spoken  and  developed  in  England. 
That  it  was  spoken  and  written  uniformly 
throughout  the  land  is  not  to  be  imagined, 
when  we  know  that  Jutes  and  Angles  were 
in  the  country  as  well  as  Saxons.  But  that 
it  was  essentially  the  same  language  every 
where  is  not  to  be  doubted,  when  we  compare 
pure  West-Saxon  texts  with  Northumbrian 
glosses  and  books  of  Durham.  Hickes  speaks 
.of  a  Dano-Saxon  period  in  the  history  of  the 
language.  The  Saxon  kings  reigned  six  hun 
dred  years  ;  the  Danish  dynasty,  twenty  only. 
And  neither  the  Danish  boors,  who  were 
earthlings  in  the  country,  nor  the  Danish  sol 
diers,  who  were  dandies  at  the  court  of  King 
Canute,  could,  in  the  brief  space  of  twenty 
years,  have  so  overlaid  or  interlarded  the  pure 
Anglo-Saxon  with  their  provincialisms,  as  to 
give  it  a  new  character,  and  thus  form  a  new 
period  in  its  history,  as  was  afterwards  done 
by  the  Normans. 

The  Dano-Saxon  is  a  dialect  of  the  lan 
guage,  not  a  period  which  was  passed  through 
in  its  history.  Down  to  the  time  of  the  Nor 
man  Conquest,  it  existed  in  the  form  of  two 


132  Drift -Wood 

principal  dialects  ;  namely,  the  Anglo-Saxon 
in  the  South  ;  and  the  Dano-Saxon,  or  Nor 
thumbrian,  in  the  North.  After  the  Norman 
Conquest,  the  language  assumed  a  new  form, 
which  has  been  called,  properly  enough,  Nor 
man-Saxon  and  Semi-Saxon. 

This  form  of  the  language,  ever  flowing 
and  filtering  through  the  roots  of  national 
feeling,  custom,  and  prejudice,  prevailed  about 
two  hundred  years  ;  that  is,  from  the  middle 
of  the  eleventh  to  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  when  it  became  English.  It  is  im 
possible  to  fix  the  landmarks  of  a  language 
with  any  great  precision  ;  but  only  floating 
beacons,  here  and  there. 

It  is  oftentimes  curious  to  consider  the  far-off 
beginnings  of  great  events,  and  to  study  the 
aspect  of  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  one's  hand. 
The  British  peasant  looked  seaward  .from  his 
harvest-field,  and  saw,  with  wondering  eyes, 
the  piratical  schooner  of  a  Saxon  Viking  mak 
ing  for  the  mouth  of  the  Thames.  A  few 
years  —  only  a  few  years  —  afterward,  while 
the  same  peasant,  driven  from  his  homestead 
north  or  west,  still  lives  to  tell  the  story  to  his 
grandchildren,  another  race  lords  it  over  the 
land,  speaking  a  different  language  and  living 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature          133 

under  different  laws.  This  important  event 
in  his  history  is  more  important  in  the  world's 
history.  Thus  began  the  reign  of  the  Saxons 
in  England  ;  and  the  downfall  of  one  nation, 
and  the  rise  of  another,  seem  to  us  at  this  dis 
tance  only  the  catastrophe  of  a  stage-play. 

The  Saxons  came  into  England  about  the 
middle  of  the  fifth  century.  They  were  pa 
gans  ;  they  were  a  wild  and  warlike  people  ; 
brave,  rejoicing  in  sea-storms,  and  beautiful  in 
person,  with  blue  eyes,  and  long,  flowing  hair. 
Their  warriors  wore  their  shields  suspended 
from  their  necks  by  chains.  Their  horsemen 
were  armed  with  iron  sledge-hammers.  Their 
priests  rode  upon  mares,  and  carried  into  the 
battle-field  an  image  of  the  god  Irminsula  ; 
in  figure  like  an  armed  man  ;  his  helmet 
crested  with  a  cock ;  in  his  right  hand  a 
banner,  emblazoned  with  a  red  rose  ;  a  bear 
carved  upon  his  breast ;  and,  hanging  from 
his  shoulders,  a  shield,  on  which  was  a  lion  in 
a  field  of  flowers. 

Not  two  centuries  elapsed  before  this  whole 
people  was  converted  to  Christianity.  ^Elfric, 
in  his  homily  on  the  birthday  of  St.  Gregory, 
informs  us,  that  this  conversion  was  accom 
plished  by  the  holy  wishes  of  that  good  man, 


*34  Drift-Wood 

and  the  holy  works  of  St.  Augustine  and  other 
monks.  St.  Gregory,  beholding  one  day  certain 
slaves  set  for  sale  in  the  market-place  of  Rome, 
who  were  "  men  of  fair  countenance  and  nobly- 
haired,"  and  learning  that  they  were  heathens, 
and  called  Angles,  heaved  a  long  sigh,  and 
said  :  "  Well-away !  that  men  of  so  fair  a  hue 
should  be  subjected  to  the  swarthy  Devil ! 
Rightly  are  they  called  Angles,  for  they  have 
angels'  beauty ;  and  therefore  it  is  fit  that 
they  in  heaven  should  be  companions  of  an 
gels."  As  soon,  therefore,  as  he  undertook 
the  popehood,  the  monks  were  sent  to  their 
beloved  work.  In  the  Witena  Gemot,  or  As 
sembly  of  the  Wise,  convened  by  King  Edwin 
of  Northumbria  to  consider  the  propriety  of 
receiving  the  Christian  faith,  a  Saxon  Ealdor- 
man  arose,  and  spoke  these  noble  words : 
"Thus  seemeth  to  me,  O  king,  this  present 
life  of  man  upon  earth,  compared  with  the 
time  which  is  unknown  to  us ;  even  as  if  you 
were  sitting  at  a  feast,  amid  your  Ealdorman 
and  Thegns  in  winter-time.  And  the  fire  is 
lighted,  and  the  hall  warmed,  and  it  rains  and 
snows  and  storms  without.  Then  cometh  a 
sparrow,  and  flieth  about  the  hall.  It  cometh 
in  at  one  door,  and  goeth  out  at  another 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature          135 

While  it  is  within,  it  is  not  touched  by  the 
winter's  storm  ;  but  that  is  only  for  a  moment, 
only  for  the  least  space.  Out  of  the  winter  it 
cometh,  to  return  again  into  the  winter  eftsoon. 
So  also  this  life  of  man  endureth  for  a  little 
space.  What  goeth  before  it  and  what  fol- 
loweth  after,  we  know  not.  Wherefore,  if  this 
new  lore  bring  aught  more  certain  and  more 
advantageous,  then  is  it  worthy  that  we  should 
follow  it." 

Thus  the  Anglo-Saxons  became  Christians. 
For  the  good  of  their  souls  they  built  monas 
teries  and  went  on  pilgrimages  to  Rome.  The 
whole  country,  to  use  Malmesbury's  phrase, 
was  "  glorious  and  refulgent  with  relics."  The 
priests  sang  psalms  night  and  day  ;  and  so 
great  was  the  piety  of  St.  Cuthbert,  that,  ac 
cording  to  Bede,  he  forgot  to  take  off  his  shoes 
for  months  together,  —  sometimes  the  whole 
year  round  ;  —  from  which  Mr.  Turner  infers, 
that  he  had  no  stockings.*  They  also  copied 
the  Evangelists,  and  illustrated  them  with  illu 
minations  ;  in  one  of  which  St.  John  is  rep 
resented  in  a  pea-green  dress  with  red  stripes. 
They  also  drank  ale  out  of  buffalo  horns  and 
wooden  -  knobbed  goblets.  A  Mercian  king 

*  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  VoL  II.  p.  61. 


136  Drift -Wood 

gave  to  the  Monastery  of  Croyland  his  great 
drinking-horn,  that  the  elder  monks  might 
drink  therefrom  at  festivals,  and  "  in  their 
benedictions  remember  sometimes  the  soul  of 
the  donor,  Witlaf."  They  drank  his  health, 
with  that  of  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mary,  the  apos 
tles,  and  other  saints.  Malmesbury  says,  that 
excessive  drinking  was  the  common  vice  of  all 
ranks  of  people.  King  Hardicanute  died  in  a 
revel,  and  King  Edmund  in  a  drunken  brawl 
at  Pucklechurch,  being,  with  all  his  court, 
much  overtaken  by  liquor,  at  the  festival  of 
St.  Augustine.  Thus  did  mankind  go  reeling 
through  the  Dark  Ages  ;  quarrelling,  drink 
ing,  hunting,  hawking,  singing  psalms,  wear 
ing  breeches,*  grinding  in  mills,  eating  hot 
bread,  rocked  in  cradles,  buried  in  coffins, — 
weak,  suffering,  sublime.  Well  might  King 
Alfred  exclaim,  "  Maker  of  all  creatures  !  help 
now  thy  miserable  mankind." 

A  national  literature  is  a  subject  which 
should  always  be  approached  with  reverence. 
It  is  difficult  to  comprehend  fully  the  mind  of 
a  nation  ;  even  when  that  nation  still  lives, 

*  In  an  old  Anglo-Saxon  dialogue,  a  shoemaker  says  that 
he  makes  "  slippers,  shoes,  and  leather  breeches  "  (swyftlerat 
sceos,  and  lether-hose. ) 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature         137 

and  we  can  visit  it,  and  its  present  history, 
and  the  lives  of  men  we  know,  help  us  to  a 
comment  on  the  written  text.  But  here  the 
dead  alone  speak.  Voices,  half  understood  ; 
fragments  of  song,  ending  abruptly,  as  if  the 
poet  had  sung  no  further,  but  died  with  these 
last  words  upon  his  lips  ;  homilies,  preached  to 
congregations  that  have  been  asleep  for  many 
centuries  ;  lives  of  saints/who  went  to  their  rer 
ward  long  before  the  world  began  to  scoff  at 
sainthood  ;  and  wonderful  legends,  once  be 
lieved  by  men,  and  now,  in  this  age  of  wise 
children,  hardly  credible  enough  for  a  nurse's 
tale ;  nothing  entire,  nothing  wholly  under 
stood,  and  no  further  comment  or  illustration 
than  may  be  drawn  from  an  isolated  fact  found 
in  an  old  chronicle,  or  perchance  a  rude  illu 
mination  in  an  old  manuscript !  Such  is  the 
literature  we  have  now  to  consider.  Such 
fragments,  and  mutilated  remains,  has  the  hu 
man  mind  left  of  itself,  coming  down  through 
the  times  of  old,  step  by  step,  and  every  step 
a  century.  Old  men  and  venerable  accom 
pany  us  through  the  Past ;  and  put  into  our 
hands,  at  parting,  such  written  records  of! 
themselves  as  they  have.  We  should  re 
ceive  these  things  with  reverence.  We  should, 
respect  old  age. 


138  Drift-Wood 

"  This  leaf,  is  it  not  blown  about  by  the  wind  ? 
Woe  to  it  for  its  fate  ! —  Alas  !  it  is  old." 

What  an  Anglo-Saxon  glee-man  was,  we 
know  from  such  commentaries  as  are  men 
tioned  above.  King  Edgar  forbade  the  monks 
to  be  ale-poets ;  and  one  of  his  accusations 
against  the  clergy  of  his  day  was,  that  they 
entertained  glee-men  in  their  monasteries, 
where  they  had  dicing,  dancing,  and  singing, 
till  midnight.  The  illumination  of  an  old 
manuscript  shows  how  a  glee-man  looked. 
It  is  a  frontispiece  to  the  Psalms  of  David. 
The  great  Psalmist  sits  upon  his  throne,  with 
a  harp  in  his  hand,  and  his  masters  of  sacred 
song  around  him.  Below  stands  the  glee- 
man,  throwing  three  balls  and  three  knives 
alternately  into  the  air,  and  catching  them  as 
they  fall,  like  a  modern  juggler.  But  all  the 
Anglo-Saxon  poets  were  not  glee-men.  All 
the  harpers  were  not  dancers.  The  Sceop, 
the  creator,  the  poet,  rose,  at  times,  to  higher 
themes.  He  sang  the  deeds  of  heroes,  victo 
rious  odes,  death-songs,  epic  poems  ;  or,  sitting 
in  cloisters,  and  afar  from  these  things,  con 
verted  holy  writ  into  Saxon  chimes. 

The  first  thing  which  strikes  the  reader  oi 
Anglo-Saxon  poetry  is  the  structure  of  the 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature          139 

verse ;  the  short  exclamatory  lines,  whose 
rhythm  depends  on  alliteration  in  the  emphatic 
syllables,  and  to  which  the  general  omission 
of  the  particles  gives  great  energy  and  vi 
vacity.  Though  alliteration  predominates  in 
all  Anglo-Saxon  poetry,  rhyme  is  not  wholly 
wanting.  It  had  line-rhymes  and  final  rhymes  ; 
which,  being  added  to  the  alliteration,  and 
brought  so  near  together  in  the  short,  em 
phatic  lines,  produce  a  singular  effect  upon 
the  ear.  They  ring  like  blows  of  hammers 
on  an  anvil.  For  example  :  — 

"  Flah  mah  fliteth, 
Flan  man  hwiteth, 
Burg  sorg  biteth, 
Bald  aid  thwiteth, 
Wraec-faec  writheth, 
Wrath  athsmiteth."* 

Other  peculiarities  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry, 
which  cannot  escape  the  reader's  attention, 
are  its  frequent  inversions,  its  bold  transi 
tions,  and  abundant  metaphors.  These  are 

*  "  Strong  dart  flitteth, 
Spear-man  whetteth, 
Care  the  city  biteth, 
Age  the  bold  quelleth, 
Vengeance  prevaileth, 
Wrath  a  town  smiteth." 


140  Drift-  Wood 

the  things  which  render  Anglo-Saxon  poetry 
so  much  more  difficult  than  Anglo-Saxon 
prose.  But  upon  these  points  I  need  not  en 
large.  It  is  enough  to  allude  to  them. 

One  of  the  oldest  and  most  important  re 
mains  of  Anglo-Saxon  literature  is  the  epic 
poem  of  Beowulf.  Its  age  is  unknown  ;  but 
it  comes  from  a  very  distant  and  hoar  antiq 
uity  ;  somewhere  between  the  seventh  and 
tenth  centuries.  It  is  like  a  piece  of  ancient 
armor ;  rusty  and  battered,  and  yet  strong. 
From  within  comes  a  voice  sepulchral,  as 
if  the  ancient  armor  spoke,  telling  a  sim 
ple,  straightforward  narrative  ;  with  here  and 
there  the  boastful  speech  of  a  rough  old 
Dane,  reminding  one  of  those  made  by  the 
heroes  of  Homer.  The  style,  likewise,  is  sim 
ple, —  perhaps-  one  should  say  austere.  The 
bold  metaphors,  which  characterize  nearly  all 
the  Anglo-Saxon  poems,  are  for  the  most  part 
wanting  in  this.  The  author  seems  mainly 
bent  upon  telling  us,  how  his  Sea-Goth  slew 
the  Grendel  and  the  Fire-drake.  He  is  too 
much  in  earnest  to  multiply  epithets  and  gor 
geous  figures.  At  times  he  is  tedious,  at  times 
obscure ;  and  he  who  undertakes  to  read  the 
original  will  find  it  no  easy  task. 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature         141 

The  poem  begins  with  a  description  of  King 
Hrothgar  the  Scylding,  in  his  great  hall  of 
Heort,  which  re-echoed  with  the  sound  of 
harp  and  song.  But  not  far  off,  in  the  fens 
and  marshes  of  Jutland,  dwelt  a  grim  and 
monstrous  giant,  called  Grendel,  a  descendant 
of  Cain.  This  troublesome  individual  was  in 
the  habit  of  occasionally  visiting  the  Scylding's 
palace  by  night,  to  see,  as  the  author  rather 
quaintly  says,  "  how  the  doughty  Danes  found 
themselves  after  their  beer-carouse."  On  his 
first  visit  he  destroyed  some  thirty  inmates, 
all  asleep,  with  beer  in  their  brains ;  and  ever 
afterwards  kept  the  whole  land  in  fear  of  death. 
At  length  the  fame  of  these  evil  deeds  reached 
the  ears  of  Beowulf,  the  Thane  of  Higelac,  a 
famous  Viking  in  those  days,  who  had  slain 
sea-monsters,  and  wore  a  wild-boar  for  his 
crest.  Straightway  he  sailed  with  fifteen  fol 
lowers  for  the  court  of  Heort ;  unarmed,  in 
the  great  mead-hall,  and  at  midnight,  fought 
the  Grendel,  tore  off  one  of  his  arms,  and  hung 
it  up  on  the  palace  wall  as  a  curiosity ;  the 
fiend's  fingers  being  armed  with  long  nails, 
which  the  author  calls  the  hand-spurs  of 
the  heathen  hero.  Retreating  to  his  cave, 
the  grim  ghost  departed  this  life ;  whereat 


1 42  Drift-  Wood 

there  was  great  carousing  at  Heort.  But  at 
night  came  the  Grendel's  mother,  and  car 
ried  away  one  of  the  beer-drunken  heroes  of 
the  ale-wassail.  Beowulf,  with  a  great  escort, 
pursued  her  to  the  fenlands  of  the  Grendel  ; 
plunged,  all  armed,  into  a  dark-rolling  and 
dreary  river,  that  flowed  from  the  monster's 
cavern  ;  slew  worms  and  dragons  manifold ; 
was  dragged  to  the  bottom  by  the  old-wife  ; 
and  seizing  a  magic  sword,  which  lay  among 
the  treasures  of  that  realm  of  wonders,  with 
one  fell  blow  let  her  heathen  soul  out  of  its 
bone-house.  Having  thus  freed  the  land  from 
•the  giants,  Beowulf,  laden  with  gifts  and  treas 
ures,  departed  homeward,  as  if  nothing  special 
had  happened,  and,  after  the  death  of  King 
Higelac,  ascended  the  throne  of  the  Scylfings. 
Here  the  poem  should  end,  and  we  doubt  not, 
did  originally  end.  But,  as  it  has  come  down 
to  us,  eleven  more  cantos  follow,  containing  a 
new  series  of  adventures.  Beowulf  has  grown 
old.  He  has  reigned  fifty  years  ;  and  now,  in 
his  gray  old  age,  is  troubled  by  the  devasta 
tions  of  a  monstrous  Fire-drake,  so  that  his 
metropolis  is  beleaguered,  and  he  can  no  longer 
fly  his  hawks  and  merles  in  the  open  country. 
He  resolves,  at  length,  to  fight  with  this  Fire- 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature          143 

drake  ;  and,  with  the  help  of  his  attendant, 
Wiglaf,  overcomes  him.  The  land  is  made 
rich  by  the  treasures  found  in  the  dragon's 
cave  ;  but  Beowulf  dies  of  his  wounds. 

Thus  departs  Beowulf,  the  Sea-Goth  ;  of  the 
world-kings  the  mildest  to  men,  the  strongest 
of  hand,  the  most  clement  to  his  people,  the 
most  desirous  of  glory.  And  thus  closes  the 
oldest  epic  in  any  modern  language  ;  written 
in  forty-three  cantos  of  some  six  thousand 
lines.  The  outline  here  given  is  filled  up 
with  abundant  episodes  and  warlike  details. 
We  have  ale-revels,  and  giving  of  bracelets,  and 
presents  of  mares,  and  songs  of  bards.  The 
battles  with  the  Grendel  and  the  Fire-drake 
are  minutely  described  ;  as  likewise  are  the 
dwellings  and  rich  treasure-houses  of  these 
monsters.  The  fire-stream  flows  with  lurid 
light  ;  the  dragon  breathes  out  flame  and  pesti 
lential  breath  ;  the  gigantic  sword,  forged  by 
the  Jutes  of  old,  dissolves  and  thaws  like  an 
icicle  in  the  hero's  grasp  ;  and  the  swart  raven 
tells  the  eagle  how  he  fared  with  the  fell  wolf 
at  the  death-feast.  Such  is,  in  brief,  the  ma 
chinery  of  the  poem.  It  possesses  great  epic 
merit,  and  in  parts  is  strikingly  graphic  in  its 
descriptions.  As  we  read,  we  can  almost  smell 


1 44  Drift-  Wood 

the  brine,  and  hear  the  sea-breeze  blow,  and 
see  the  mainland  stretch  out  its  jutting  promon 
tories,  those  sea-noses,  as  the  poet  calls  them, 
into  the  blue  waters  of  the  solemn  ocean. 

The  next  work  to  which  I  would  call  the 
attention  of  my  readers  is  very  remarkable, 
both  in  a  philological  and  in  a  poetical  point 
of  view  ;  being  written  in  a  more  ambitious 
style  than  Beowulf.  It  is  Caedmon's  Para 
phrase  of  Portions  of  Holy  Writ.  Casdmon 
was  a  monk  in  the  Minster  of  Whitby.  He 
lived  and  died  in  the  seventh  century.  The 
only  account  we  have  of  his  life  is  that  given 
by  the  Venerable  Bede  in  his  Ecclesiastical 
History. 

By  some  he  is  called  the  Father  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  Poetry,  because  his  name  stands  first 
in  the  history  of  Saxon  song-craft ;  by  others, 
the  Milton  of  our  Forefathers  ;  because  he 
sang  of  Lucifer  and  the  Loss  of  Paradise. 

The  poem  is  divided  into  two  books.  The 
first  is  nearly  complete,  and  contains  a  para 
phrase  of  parts  of  the  Old  Testament  and  the 
Apocrypha.  The  second  is  so  mutilated  as 
to  be  only  a  series  of  unconnected  fragments. 
It  contains  scenes  from  the  New  Testament, 
and  is  chiefly  occupied  with  Christ's  descent 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature         145 

into  the  lower  regions  ;  a  favorite  theme  in 
old  times,  and  well  known  in  the  history  of 
miracle-plays,  as  the  Harrowing  of  Hell.  The 
author  is  a  pious,  prayerful  monk  ;  "  an  awful, 
reverend,  and  religious  man."  He  has  all  the 
simplicity  of  a  child.  He  calls  his  Creator 
the  Blithe-heart  King  :  the  patriarchs,  Earls  ; 
and  their  children,  Noblemen.  Abraham  is  a 
wise-heedy  man,  a  guardian  of  bracelets,  a 
mighty  earl ;  and  his  wife  Sarah,  a  woman  of 
elfin  beauty.  The  sons  of  Reuben  are  called 
Sea-Pirates.  A  laugher  is  a  laughter-smith  ; 
the  Ethiopians,  a  people  brown  with  the  hot 
coals  of  heaven. 

Striking  poetic  epithets  and  passages  are 
not  wanting  in  his  works.  They  are  sprin 
kled  here  and  there  throughout  the  narrative. 
The  sky  is  called  the  roof  of  nations,  the  roof 
adorned  with  stars.  After  the  overthrow  of 
Pharaoh  and  his  folk,  he  says,  the  blue  air 
was  with  corruption  tainted,  and  the  bursting 
ocean  whooped  a  bloody  storm.  Nebuchad 
nezzar  is  described  as  a  naked,  unwilling  wan 
derer,  a  wondrous  wretch  and  weedless.  Hor 
rid  ghosts,  swart  and  sinful, 

"  Wide  through  windy  halls 
Wail  woful." 


146  Drift -Wood 

And,  in  the  sack  of  Sodom,  we  are  told  how 
many  a  fearful,  pale-faced  damsel  must  trem 
bling  go  into  a  stranger's  embrace  ;  and  how 
fell  the  defenders  of  brides  and  bracelets,  sick 
with  wounds.  Indeed,  whenever  the  author 
has  a  battle  to  describe,  and  hosts  of  arm- 
bearing  and  warfaring  men  draw  from  their 
sheaths  the  ring-hilted  sword  of  edges  doughty, 
he  enters  into  the  matter  with  so  much  spirit, 
that  one  almost  imagines  he  sees,  looking 
from  under  that  monkish  cowl,  the  visage  of 
no  parish  priest,  but  of  a  grim  war-wolf,  as 
the  great  fighters  were  called,  in  the  days 
when  Csedmon  wrote. 

Such  are  the  two  great  narrative  poems  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue.  Of  a  third,  a  short 
fragment  remains.  It  is  a  mutilated  thing,  a 
mere  torso.  Judith  of  the  Apocrypha  is  the 
heroine.  The  part  preserved  describes  the 
death  of  Holofernes  in  a  fine,  brilliant  style, 
delighting  the  hearts  of  all  Anglo-Saxon  schol 
ars.  But  a  more  important  fragment  is  that 
on  the  Death  of  Byrhtnoth  at  the  battle  of 
Maldon.  It  savors  of  rust  and  of  antiquity, 
like  "  Old  Hildebrand  "  in  German.  What  a 
fine  passage  is  this,  spoken  by  an  aged  vassal 
over  the  dead  body  of  the  hero,  in  the  thickest 
of  the  fight ! 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature          147 

"  Byrhtwold  spoke  ;  he  was  an  aged  vassal ;  he 
raised  his  shield  ;  he  brandished  his  ashen  spear  ; 
he  full  boldly  exhorted  the  warriors.  '  Our  spirit 
shall  be  the  hardier,  our  heart  shall  be  the  keener, 
our  soul  shall  be  the  greater,  the  more  our  forces 
diminish.  Here  lieth  our  chief  all  mangled  ;  the 
brave  one  in  the  dust ;  ever  may  he  lament  his 
shame  that  thinketh  to  fly  from  this  play  of  weap 
ons  !  Old  am  I  in  life,  yet  will  I  not  stir  hence ; 
but  I  think  to  lie  by  the  side  of  my  lord,  by  that 
much-loved  man  ! ' ' 

Shorter  than  either  of  these  fragments  is  a 
third  on  the  Fight  of  Finsborough.  Its  chief 
value  seems  to  be,  that  it  relates  to  the  same 
action  which  formed  the  theme  of  one  of 
Hrothgar's  bards  in  Beowulf.  In  addition  to 
these  narrative  poems  and  fragments,  there 
are  two  others,  founded  on  lives  of  saints. 
They  are  the  Life  and  Passion  of  St.  Juliana, 
and  the  Visions  of  the  Hermit  Guthlac. 

There  is  another  narrative  poem,  which  I 
must  mention  here  on  account  of  its  subject, 
though  of-  a  much  later  date  than  the  fore 
going.  It  is  the  Chronicle  of  King  Lear  and 
his  daughters,  in  Norman-Saxon  ;  not  rhymed 
throughout,  but  with  rhymes  too  often  recur 
ring  to  be  accidental.  As  a  poem,  it  has  no 


148  Drift-Wood 

merit,  but  shows  that  the  story  of  Lear  is  very 
old  :  for,  in  speaking  of  the  old  king's  death 
and  burial,  it  refers  to  a  previous  account,  "  as 
the  book  telleth."  Cordelia  is  married  to 
Aganippus,  king  of  France  ;  and,  after  his 
death,  reigns  over  England,  though  Maglau- 
dus,  king  -  of  Scotland,  declares,  that  it  is  a 
"  muckle  shame,  that  a  queen  should  be  king 
in  the  land."  * 

Besides  these  long,  elaborate  poems,  the 
Anglo-Saxons  had  their  odes  and  ballads. 
Thus,  when  King  Canute  was  sailing  by  the 
Abbey  of  Ely,  he  heard  the  voices  of  the 
monks  chanting  their  vesper  hymn.  Where 
upon  he  sang,  in  the  best  Anglo-Saxon  he  was 
master  of,  the  following  rhyme  :  — 

"  Merie  sungen  the  muneches  binnen  Ely, 
Tha  Cnut  ching  reuther  by  ; 
Roweth,  cnihtes,  noer  the  land, 
And  here  we  thes  muneches  sang. "  f 

*  For  hit  was  swithe  mochel  same, 
and  eke  hit  was  mochel  grame, 
that  a  cwene  solde 
be  king  in  thisse  land. 

f  Merry  sang  the  monks  in  Ely, 
As  King  Canute  was  steering  by  ; 
Row,  ye  knights,  near  the  land, 
And  hear  we  these  monks'  song. 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature         r49 

The  best,  and,  properly  speaking,  perhaps 
the  only,  Anglo-Saxon  odes,  are  those  pre 
served  in  the  Saxon  Chronicle,  in  recording 
the  events  they  celebrate.  They  are  five  in 
number  ;  —  ^Ethelstan's  Victory  at  Brunan- 
burh ;  the  Victories  of  Edmund  yEtheling ; 
the  Coronation  of  King  Edgar ;  the  Death  of 
King  Edgar  ;  and  the  Death  of  King  Edward. 
The  Battle  of  Brunanburh  is  already  pretty 
well  known  by  the  numerous  English  versions, 
and  attempts  thereat,  which  have  been  given 
of  it.  This  ode  is  one  of  the  most  character 
istic  specimens  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry.  What 
a  striking  picture  is  that  of  the  lad  with  flaxen 
hair,  mangled  with  wounds  ;  and  of  the  seven 
earls  of  Anlaf,  and  the  five  young  kings,  lying 
on  the  battle-field,  lulled  asleep  by  the  sword ! 
Indeed,  the  whole  ode  is  striking,  bold,  graphic. 
The  furious  onslaught ;  the  cleaving  of  the  wall 
of  shields  ;  the  hewing  down  of  banners  ;  the 
din  of  the  fight  :  the  hard  hand-play  ;  the  re 
treat  of  the  Northmen,  in  nailed  ships,  over 
the  stormy  sea  ;  and  the  deserted  dead,  on  the 
battle-ground,  left  to  the  swart  raven,  the  war- 
hawk,  and  the  wolf ;  —  all  these  images  appeal 
strongly  to  the  imagination.  The  bard  has 
nobly  described  this  victory  of  the  illustrious 


150  Drift -Wood 

war-smiths,  the  most  signal  victory  since  the 
coming  of  the  Saxons  into  England  ;  so  say 
the  books  of  the  old  wise  men. 

And  here  I  would  make  due  and  honorable 
mention  of  the  Poetic  Calendar,  and  of  King 
Alfred's  Version  of  the  Metres  of  Boethius. 
The  Poetic  Calendar  is  a  chronicle  of  great 
events  in  the  lives  of  saints,  martyrs,  and  apos 
tles,  referred  to  the  days  on  which  they  took 
place.  At  the  end  is  a  strange  poem,  consist 
ing  of  a  series  of  aphorisms,  not  unlike  those 
that  adorn  a  modern  almanac. 

In  addition  to  these  narratives  and  odes 
and  didactic  poems,  there  are  numerous  mi 
nor  poems  on  various  subjects,  some  of  which 
have  been  published,  though  for  the  most 
part  they  still  lie  buried  in  manuscripts, — • 
hymns,  allegories,  doxologies,  proverbs,  enig 
mas,  paraphrases  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  poems 
on  Death  and  the  Day  of  Judgment,  and  the 
like.  A  large  quantity  of  them  is  contained 
in  the  celebrated  Exeter  Manuscript,  —  a  folio 
given  by  Bishop  Leofric  to  the  Cathedral  oi 
Exeter  in  the  eleventh  century,  and  called  by 
the  donor,  "  a  great  English  book  about  every 
thing,  composed  in  verse."  Among  them  is 
a  very  singular  and  striking  poem,  entitled, 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature          151 

"  The  Soul's  Complaint  against  the  Body,"  in 
which  the  departed  spirit  is  described  as  re 
turning,  ghastly  and  shrieking,  to  upbraid  the 
body  it  had  left. 

"  Much  it  behoveth 
Each  one  of  mortals, 
That  he  his  soul's  journey 
In  himself  ponder, 
How  deep  it  may  be. 
When  Death  cometh, 
The  bonds  he  breaketh 
By  which  were  united 
The  soul  and  the  body. 

"  Long  it  is  thenceforth 
Ere  the  soul  taketh 
From  God  himself 
Its  woe  or  its  weal ; 
As  in  the  world  erst, 
Even  in  its  earth-vessel, 
It  wrought  before. 

"  The  soul  shall  come 
Wailing  with  loud  voice, 
After  a  sennight, 
The  soul,  to  find 
The  body 

That  it  erst  dwelt  in  ;  — 
Three  hundred  winters, 
Unless  ere  that  worketh 
The  Eternal  Lord, 
The  Almighty  God, 
The  end  of  the  world. 


152  Drift -Wood 

"Crieth  then,  so  care-worn, 
With  cold  utterance, 
And  speaketh  grimly, 
The  ghost  to  the  dust : 
'  Dry  dust !  thou  dreary  one  ! 
How  little  didst  thou  labor  for  me  I 
In  the  foulness  of  earth 
Thou  all  wearest  away 
Like  to  the  loam  ! 
Little  didst  thou  think 
How  thy  soul's  journey 
Would  be  thereafter, 
When  from  the  body 
It  should  be  led  forth.'" 

But  perhaps  the  most  curious  poem  in  the 
Exeter  Manuscript  is  the  Rhyming  Poem,  to 
which  I  have  before  alluded.* 

Still  more  spectral  is  the  following  Nor 
man-Saxon  poem,  from  a  manuscript  volume 
of  Homilies  in  the  Bodleian  Library.  The 
subject  is  the  grave.  It  is  Death  that  speaks. 

"  For  thee  was  a  house  built 
Ere  thou  wast  born  ; 
For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest 
But  it  is -not  made  ready, 
Nor  its  depth  measured, 
Nor  is  it  seen 

*  Since  this  paper  was  written,  the  Exeter  Manuscript  has 
been  published,  with  a  translation  by  Mr.  Thorpe. 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature 

How  long  it  shall  be. 
Now  I  bring  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  be. 
Now  I  shall  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 

"  Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered  ; 
It  is  unhigh  and  low, 
When  thou  art  therein, 
The  heel-ways  are  low, 
The  side-ways  unhigh ; 
The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh. 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold, 
Dimly  and  dark. 

"  Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within  ; 
There  thou  art  fast  detained, 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth -house, 
And  grim  within  to  dwell ; 
There  thou  shalt  dwell, 
And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

"  Thus  thou  art  laid 
And  leavest  thy  friends  ; 
Thou  hast  no  friend 
Who  will  come  to  thee, 
Who  will  ever  see 
How  that  house  pleaseth  thee, 
Who  will  ever  open 


154  Drift-Wood 

The  door  for  thee, 
And  descend  after  thee  ; 
For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. " 

We  now  come  to  Anglo-Saxon  Prose.  At 
the  very  boundary  stand  two  great  works,  like 
landmarks.  These  are  the  Saxon  Laws,  pro 
mulgated  by  the  various  kings  that  ruled  the 
land ;  and  the  Saxon  Chronicle,  in  which  all 
great  historic  events,  from  the  middle  of  the 
fifth  to  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century,  are 
recorded  by  contemporary  writers,  mainly,  it 
would  seem,  the  monks  of  Winchester,  Peter 
borough,  and  Canterbury.*  Setting  these 
aside,  doubtless  the  most  important  remains 
of  Anglo-Saxon  prose  are  the  writings  of 
King  Alfred  the  Great. 

What  a  sublime  old  character  was  King 
Alfred  !  Alfred,  the  Truth-teller !  Thus  the 
ancient  historian  surnamed  him,  as  others 

*  The  style  of  this  Chronicle  rises  at  times  far  above  that 
of  most  monkish  historians.  For  instance,  in  recording  the 
death  of  William  the  Conqueror,  the  writer  says  :  "  Sharp 
Death,  that  passes  by  neither  rich  men  nor  poor,  seized  him 
also.  Alas !  how  false  and  how  uncertain  is  this  world's 
weal !  He  that  was  before  a  rich  king,  and  lord  of  many 
lands,  had  not  then  of  all  his  land  more  than  a  space  of  seven 
feet !  and  he  that  was  whilom  enshrouded  in  gold  and  germ 
lay  there  covered  with  mould. "  A.  D.  1087. 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature          *55 

were  surnamed  the  Unready,  Ironside,  Hare- 
foot  The  principal  events  of  his  life  are 
known  to  all  men  ;  —  the  nine  battles  fought 
in  the  first  year  of  his  reign  ;  his  flight  to  the 
marshes  and  forests  of  Somersetshire ;  his 
poverty  and  suffering,  wherein  was  fulfilled 
the  prophecy  of  St.  Neot,  that  he  should  "  be 
bruised  like  the  ears  of  wheat";  his  life  with 
the  swineherd,  whose  wife  bade  him  turn  the 
cakes,  that  they  might  not  be  burnt,  for  she 
saw  daily  that  he  was  a  great  eater ;  his  suc 
cessful  rally  ;  his  victories,  and  his  future  glo 
rious  reign  ;  —  these  things  are  known  to  all 
men.  And  not  only  these,  which  are  events 
in  his  life,  but  also  many  more,  which  are  traits 
in  his  character,  and  controlled  events  ;  as,  for 
example,  that  he  was  a  wise  and  virtuous  man, 
a  religious  man,  a  learned  man  for  that  age. 
Perhaps  they  know,  even,  how  he  measured 
time  with  his  six  horn  lanterns  ;  also,  that  he 
was  an  author  and  wrote  many  books.  But  of 
these  books  how  few  persons  have  read  even 
a  single  line !  And  yet  it  is  well  worth  our 
while,  if  we  wish  to  see  all  the  calm  dignity  of 
that  great  mans  character,  and  how  in  him 
the  scholar  and  the  man  outshone  the  king. 
For  example,  do  we  not  know  him  better,  and 


156  Drift -Wood 

honor  him  more,  when  we  hear  from  his  own 
lips,  as  it  were,  such  sentiments  as  these  ? 
"  God  has  made  all  men  equally  noble  in  their 
original  nature.  True  nobility  is  in  the  mind, 
not  in  the  flesh.  I  wished  to  live  honorably 
whilst  I  lived,  and,  after  my  life,  to  leave  to 
the  men  who  were  after  me  my  memory  in 
good  works  ! " 

The  chief  writings  of  this  royal  author 
are  his  translations  of  Gregory's  Pastoralis, 
Boethius's  Consolations  of  Philosophy,  Bede's 
Ecclesiastical  History,  and  the  History  of 
Orosius,  known  in  manuscripts  by  the  myste 
rious  title  of  Hormesta.  Of  these  works  the 
most  remarkable  is  the  Boethius  ;  so  much  of 
his  own  mind  has  Alfred  infused  into  it. 
Properly  speaking,  it  is  not  so  much  a  trans 
lation  as  a  gloss  or  paraphrase  ;  for  the  Saxon 
king,  upon  his  throne,  had  a  soul  which  was 
near  akin  to  that  of  the  last  of  the  Roman 
philosophers  in  his  prison.  He  had  suffered, 
and  could  sympathize  with  suffering  human 
ity.  He  adorned  and  carried  out  still  further 
the  reflections  of  Boethius.  He  begins  his 
task,  however,  with  an  apology,  saying,  "  Al 
fred,  king,  was  translator  of  this  book,  and 
turned  it  from  book-Latin  into  English,  as  he 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature         r57 

most  plainly  and  clearly  could,  amid  the  vari 
ous  and  manifold  worldly  occupations  which 
often  busied  him  in  mind  and  body "  ;  and 
ends  with  a  prayer,  beseeching  God,  "  by  the 
sign  of  the  holy  cross,  and  by  the  virginity  of 
the  blessed  Mary,  and  by  the  obedience  of  the 
blessed  Michael,  and  by  the  love  of  all  the 
saints  and  their  merits,"  that  his  mind  might 
be  made  steadfast  to  the  Divine  will  and  his 
own  soul's  need. 

Other  remains  of  Anglo-Saxon  prose  exist 
in  the  tale  of  Apollonius  of  Tyre ;  the  Bible- 
translations  and  Colloquies  of  Abbott  ^Ifric  ; 
Glosses  of  the  Gospels,  at  the  close  of  one 
of  which  the  conscientious  scribe  has  written, 
"Aldred,  an  unworthy  and  miserable  priest, 
with  the  help  of  God  and  St.  Cuthbert,  over- 
glossed  it  in  English "  ;  and,  finally,  various 
miscellaneous  treatises,  among  which  the  most 
curious  is  a  Dialogue  between  Saturn  and 
Solomon.  I  cannot  refrain  from  giving  a  few 
extracts  from  this  very  original  and  curious 
document,  which  bears  upon  it  some  of  the 
darkest  thumb-marks  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

"  Tell  me,  what  man  first  spake  with  a  dog? 
"  I  tell  thee,  Saint  Peter. 


158  Drift- Wood 

i 

"Tell  me,  what  man  first  ploughed  the  earth 
with  a  plough  ? 

"  I  tell  thee,  it  was  Ham,  the  son  of  Noah. 

"  Tell  me,  wherefore  stones  are  barren  ? 

"  I  tell  thee,  because  Abel's  blood  fell-  upon  a 
stone,  when  Cain  his  brother  slew  him  with  the 
jawbone  of  an  ass. 

"  Tell  me,  what  made  the  sea  salt  ? 

\"  I  tell  thee,  the  ten  commandments  that  Moses 
collected  in  the  old  law,  —  the  commandments  of 
God.  He  threw  the  ten  commandments  into  the 
sea,  and  he  shed  tears  into  the  sea,  and  the  sea  be 
came  salt. 

"  Tell  me,  what  man  first  built  a  monastery  ? 

"  I  tell  thee,  Elias,  and  Elisha  the  prophet,  and 
after  baptism,  Paul  and  Anthony,  the  first  anchor 
ites. 

"  Tell  me,  what  were  the  streams  that  watered 
Paradise  ? 

"I  tell  thee,  they  were  four.  The  first  was 
called  Pison  ;  the  second,  Geon ;  the  third,  Ti 
gris  ;  the  fourth,  Euphrates  ;  that  is,  milk,  and 
honey,  and  ale,  and  wine. 

"  Tell  me,  why  is  the  sun  red  at  evening  ? 

"  I  tell  thee,  because  he  looks  into  Hell. 

"  Tell  me,  why  shineth  he  so  red  in  the  morn- 
ing? 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature         159 

"  I  tell  thee,  because  he  doubteth  whether  he 
shall  or  shall  not  shine  upon  this  earth,  as  he  is 
commanded. 

"  Tell  me,  what  four  waters  feed  this  earth  ? 

"  I  tell  thee,  they  are  snow,  and  rain,  and  hail, 
and  dew. 

"  Tell  me,  who  first  made  letters  ? 

"  I  tell  thee,  Mercury  the  Giant." 

Hardly  less  curious,  and  infinitely  more  val 
uable,  is  a  "  Colloquy  "  of  y£lfric,  composed 
for  the  purpose  of  teaching  boys  to  speak 
Latin.  The  Saxon  is  an  interlinear  transla 
tion  of  the  Latin.  In  this  Colloquy  various 
laborers  and  handicraftsmen  are  introduced, 
—  ploughmen,  herdsmen,  huntsmen,  shoemak 
ers,  and  others  ;  and  each  has  his  say,  even 
to  the  blacksmith,  who  dwells  in  his  smithy 
amid  iron  fire-sparks  and  the  sound  of  beat 
ing  sledge-hammers  and  blowing  bellows.  I 
translate  the  close  of  this  Colloquy,  to  show 
our  readers  what  a  poor  school-boy  had  to 
suffer  in  the  Middle  Ages.  They  will  hardly 
wonder,  that  Erigena  Scot  should  have  been 
put  to  death  with  penknives  by  his  scholars. 

"  Magister.  Well,  boy,  what  hast  thou  been  do 
ing  to-day  ? 

"  Discipulus.     A  great  many  things  have  I  been 


160  Drift-Wood 

doing.  Last  night,  when  I  heard  the  knell,  I  got 
out  of  my  bed  and  went  into  the  church,  and  sang 
the  matin-song  with  the  friars ;  after  that  we  sang 
the  hymn  of  All  Saints,  and  the  morning  songs  of 
praise  ;  after  these  Prime,  and  the  seven  Psalms, 
with  the  litanies  and  the  first  Mass ;  then  the  nine- 
o'clock  service,  and  the  mass  for  the  day,  and  after 
this  we  sang  the  service  of  mid-day,  and  ate,  and 
drank,  and  slept,  and  got  up  again,  and  sang 
Nones,  and  now  are  here  before  thee,  ready  to 
hear  what  thou  hast  to  say  to  us. 

"  Magister.  When  will  you  sing  Vespers  or  the 
Compline  ? 

"  Disripulus,     When  it  is  time. 

"  Magister.     Hast  thou  had  a  whipping  to-day  ? 

"  Discipulus.  I  have  not,  because  I  have  be 
haved  very  warily. 

"  Magister.     And  thy  playmates  ? 

"  Discipulus.  Why  dost  thou  ask  me  about 
them?  I  dare  not  tell  thee  our  secrets.  Each 
one  of  them  knows  whether  he  has  been  whipped 
or  not. 

"  Magister.     What  dost  thou  eat  every  day  ? 

"  Discipulus.  I  still  eat  meat,  because  I  am  a 
child,  living  under  the  rod. 

"  Magister.     What  else  dost  thou  eat  ? 

"  Discipulus.  Greens  and  eggs,  fish  and  cheese, 
butter  and  beans,  and  all  clean  things,  with  much 
thankfulness. 


Anglo-Saxon  Literature          161 

"  Magister.  Exceedingly  voracious  art  thou  ;  for 
thou  devourest  everything  that  is  set  before  thee. 

"  Discipulus.  Not  so  very  voracious  either,  for 
I  don't  eat  all  kinds  of  food  at  one  meal. 

"  Magister.     How  then  ? 

"Discipulus.  Sometimes  I  eat  one  kind,  and 
sometimes  another,  with  soberness,  as  becomes  a 
monk,  and  not  with  voracity  ;  for  I  am  not  a  glut 
ton. 

"  Magister.     And  what  dost  thou  drink  ? 

"  Discipulus.  Beer,  when  I  can  get  it,  and  wa 
ter  when  I  cannot  get  beer. 

"  Magister.     Dost  thou  not  drink  wine  ? 

"  Discipulus.  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  buy 
wine  ;  and  wine  is  not  a  drink  for  boys  and  igno 
rant  people,  but  for  old  men  and  wise. 

"  Magister.     Where  dost  thou  sleep  ? 

"  Discipulus.     In  the  dormitory,  with  the  friars. 

"  Magister.     Who  wakes  thee  for  matins  ? 

"  Discipulus.  Sometimes  I  hear  the  knell  and 
get  up  ;  sometimes  my  master  wakes  me  sternly 
with  a  rod. 

"Magister.  O  ye  good  children,  and  winsome 
learners  !  Your  teacher  admonishes  you  to  fol 
low  godly  lore,  and  to  behave  yourselves  decently 
everywhere.  Go  obediently,  when  you  hear  the 
chapel  bell,  enter  into  the  chapel,  and  bow  sup- 
pliantly  at  the  holy  altars,  and  stand  submissive, 
and  sing  with  one  accord,  and  pray  for  your  sins, 


1 62  Drift -Wood 

and  then  depart  to  the  cloister  or  the  school-room 
without  levity." 

I  cannot  close  this  sketch  of  Anglo-Saxon 
Literature  without  expressing  the  hope,  that 
what  I  have  written  may  "  stir  up  riper  wits 
than  mine  to  the  perfection  of  this  rough- 
hewn  work."  The  history  of  this  literature 
still  remains  to  be  written.  How  strange  it 
is  that  so  interesting  a  subject  should  wait 
so  long  for  its  historian ! 


PARIS  IN  THE  SEVENTEENTH 
CENTURY 

1838 

THE  age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  is  one 
of  the  most  brilliant  in  history ;  illustri 
ous  by  its  reign  of  seventy-two  years  and  its 
hundred  authors  known  to  fame.  The  govern 
ment  of  this  monarch  has  been  called  "  a  satire 
upon  despotism."  His  vanity  was  boundless : 
his  magnificence  equally  so.  The  palaces  of 
Marly  and  Versailles  are  monuments  of  his 
royal  pride :  equestrian  statues,  and  his  figure 
on  one  of  the  gates  of  Paris,  represented  as  a 
naked  Hercules,  with  a  club  in  his  hand  and 
a  flowing  wig  on  his  head,  are  monuments  of 
his  vanity  and  self-esteem. 

His  court  was  the  home  of  etiquette  and 
the  model  of  all  courts.  "  It  seemed,"  says 
Voltaire,  "  that  Nature  at  that  time  took  de 
light  in  producing  in  France  the  greatest  men 
in  all  the  arts  ;  and  of  assembling  at  court 
the  most  beautiful  men  and  women  that  had 


1 64  Drift  -  Wood 

ever  existed.  But  the  king  bore  the  palm 
away  from  all  his  courtiers  by  the  grace  of 
his  figure  and  the  majestic  beauty  of  his  coun 
tenance  ;  the  noble  and  winning  sound  of  his 
voice  gained  over  the  hearts  that  his  presence 
intimidated.  His  carriage  was  such  as  became 
him  and  his  rank  only,  and  would  have  been 
ridiculous  in  any  other.  The  embarrassment 
he  inspired  in  those  who  spoke  with  him 
flattered  in  secret  the  self-complacency  with 
which  he  recognized  his  own  superiority.  The 
old  officer,  who  became  agitated  and  stammer 
ed  in  asking  a  favor  from  him,  and  not  being 
able  to  finish  his  discourse,  exclaimed,  '  Sire,  I 
do  not  tremble  so  before  your  enemies ! '  had 
no  difficulty  in  obtaining  the  favor  he  asked." 
All  about  him  was  pomp  and  theatrical 
show.  He  invented  a  kind  of  livery,  which 
it  was  held  the  greatest  honor  to  wear  ;  a  blue 
waistcoat  embroidered  with  gold  and  silver  ; 
—  a  mark  of  royal  favor.  To  all  around  him 
he  was  courteous  ;  towards  women  chivalrous. 
He  never  passed  even  a  chambermaid  without 
touching  his  hat ;  and  always  stood  uncovered 
in  the  presence  of  a  lady.  When  the  disap 
pointed  Duke  of  Lauzun  insulted  him  by 
breaking  his  sword  in  his  presence,  he  raised 


Paris  in  the  Seventeenth  Century     16$ 

the  window,  and  threw  his  cane  into  the  court 
yard,  saying,  "  I  never  should  have  forgiven 
myself  if  I  had  struck  a  gentleman." 

He  seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  a  strange 
mixture  of  magnanimity  and  littleness  ;  —  his 
gallantries  veiled  always  in  a  show  of  decency  ; 
severe  ;  capricious  ;  fond  of  pleasure  ;  hardly 
less  fond  of  labor.  One  day  we  find  him  dash 
ing  from  Vincennes  to  Paris  in  his  hunting- 
dress,  and  standing  in  his  great  boots,  with 
a  whip  in  his  hand,  dismissing  his  Parliament 
as  he  would  a  pack  of  hounds.  The  next  he 
is  dancing  in  the  ballet  of  his  private  theatre, 
in  the  character  of  a  gypsy,  and  whistling  or 
singing  scraps  of  opera-songs  ;  and  then  pa 
rading  at  a  military  review,  or  galloping  at 
full  speed  through  the  park  of  Fontainebleau, 
hunting  the  deer,  in  a  calash  drawn  by  four 
ponies.  Towards  the  close  of  his  life  he  be 
came  a  devotee.  "  It  is  a  very  remarkable 
thing,"  says  Voltaire,  "  that  the  public,  who 
forgave  him  all  his  mistresses,  could  not  for 
give  him  his  father  confessor."  He  outlived 
the  respect  of  his  subjects.  When  he  lay  on 
his  death-bed,  —  those  godlike  eyes  that  had 
overawed  the  world  now  grown  dim  and  lus 
treless,  —  all  his  courtiers  left  him  to  die  alone, 


166  Drift-Wood 

and  thronged  about  his  successor,  the  Duke 
of  Orleans.  An  empiric  gave  him  an  elixir, 
which  suddenly  revived  him.  He  ate  once 
more,  and  it  was  said  he  could  recover.  The 
crowd  about  the  Duke  of  Orleans  diminished 
very  fast.  "  If  the  king  eats  a  second  time,  I 
shall  be  left  all  alone,"  said  he.  But  the  king 
ate  no  more.  He  died  like  a  philosopher.  To 
Madame  de  Maintenon  he  said,  "  I  thought  it 
was  more  difficult  to  die  ! "  and  to  his  domes 
tics,  "  Why  do  you  weep  ?  Did  you  think  I 
was  immortal  ? " 

Of  course  the  character  of  the  monarch 
stamped  itself  upon  the  society  about  him. 
The  licentious  court  made  a  licentious  city. 
Yet  everywhere  external  decency  and  decorum 
prevailed.  The  courtesy  of  the  old  school 
held  sway.  Society,  moreover,  was  pompous 
and  artificial.  There  were  pedantic  scholars 
about  town  ;  and  learned  women  ;  and  Prt- 
cieuses  Ridicules,  and  Euphuism.  With  all 
its  greatness,  it  was  an  effeminate  age. 

The  old  city  of  Paris,  which  lies  in  the 
Marais,  was  once  the  court  end  of  the  town. 
It  is  now  entirely  deserted  by  wealth  and 
fashion.  Travellers  even  seldom  find  their 
way  into  its  broad  and  silent  streets.  But 


Paris  in  the  Seventeenth  Century     167 

sightly  mansions  and  garden  walls,  over  which 
tall,  shadowy  trees  wave  to  and  fro,  speak  of 
a  more  splendid  age,  when  proud  and  courtly 
ladies  dwelt  there,  and  the  frequent  wheels  of 
gay  equipages  chafed  the  now  grass-grown 
pavements. 

In  the  centre  of  this  part  of  Paris,  within 
pistol-shot  of  the  Boulevard  St.  Antoine, 
stands  the  Place  Royale.  Old  palaces  of  a 
quaint  and  uniform  style,  with  a  low  arcade 
in  front,  run  quite  round  the  square.  In  its 
centre  is  a  public  walk,  with  trees,  an  iron 
railing,  and  an  equestrian  statue  of  Louis  the 
Thirteenth.  It  was  here  that  monarch  held  his 
court.  But  there  is  no  sign  of  a  court  now. 
Under  the  arcade  are  shops  and  fruit-stalls ; 
and  in  one  corner  sits  a  cobbler,  seemingly  as 
old  and  deaf  as  the  walls  around  him.  Oc 
casionally  you  get  a  glimpse  through  a  grated 
gate  into  spacious  gardens  ;  and  a  large  flight 
of  steps  leads  up  into  what  was  once  a  royal 
palace,  and  is  now  a  tavern.  In  the  public 
walk  old  gentlemen  sit  under  the  trees  on 
benches,  and  enjoy  the  evening  air.  Others 
walk  up  and  down,  buttoned  in  long  frock- 
coats.  They  have  all  a  provincial  look.  In 
deed,  for  a  time  you  imagine  yourself  in  a 


1 68  Drift -Wood 

small  French  town,  not  in  Paris ;  so  different 
is  everything  there  from  the  Paris  you  live  in. 
You  are  in  a  quarter  where  people  retire  to 
live  genteelly  on  small  incomes.  The  gentle 
men  in  long  frock-coats  are  no  courtiers,  but 
retired  tradesmen. 

Not  far  off  is  the  Rue  des  Tournelles  ;  and 
the  house  is  still  standing  in  which  lived  and 
loved  that  Aspasia  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
—  the  celebrated  Ninon  de  1'Enclos.  From 
the  Boulevard  you  look  down  into  the  garden, 
where  her  illegal  and  ill-fated  son,  on  discov 
ering  that  the  object  of  his  passion  was  his 
own  mother,  put  an  end  to  his  miserable 
life.  Not  very  remote  from  this  is  the  house 
once  occupied  by  Madame  de  Se"vigne\  You 
are  shown  the  very  cabinet  where  she  com 
posed  those  letters  which  beautified  her  na 
tive  tongue,  and  "  make  us  love  the  very  ink 
that  wrote  them."  In  a  word,  you  are  here 
in  the  centre  of  the  Paris  of  the  seventeenth 
century ;  the  gay,  the  witty,  the  licentious 
city,  which  in  Louis  the  Fourteenth's  time 
was  like  Athens  in  the  age  of  Pericles.  And 
now  all  is  changed  to  solitude  and  silence. 
The  witty  age,  with  its  brightness  and  licen 
tious  heat,  all  burnt  out,  —  puffed  into  dark- 


Paris  in  the  Seventeenth  Century      169 

ness  by  the  breath  of  time.  Thus  passes  an 
age  of  libertinism  and  sedition,  and  bloody, 
frivolous  wars,  and  fighting  bishops,  and  de 
vout  prostitutes,  and  "  factious  beaux  esprits 
improvising  epigrams  in  the  midst  of  sedi 
tions,  and  madrigals  on  the  field  of  battle." 

Westward  from  this  quarter,  near  the  Seine 
and  the  Louvre,  stood  the  ever  famous  Hotel 
de  Rambouillet,  the  court  of  Euphuism  and 
false  taste.  Here  Catherine  de  Vivonne,  Mar 
chioness  of  Rambouillet,  gave  her  aesthetical 
soirees  in  her  bedchamber,  and  she  herself  in 
bed,  among  the  curtains  and  mirrors  of  a  gay 
alcove.  The  master  of  ceremonies  bore  the 
title  of  the  Alcoviste.  He  did  the  honors  of 
the  house  and  directed  the  conversation,  and 
such  was  the  fashion  of  the  day,  that,  impos 
sible  as  it  may  seem  to  us,  no  evil  tongue 
soiled  with  malignant  whisper  the  fair  fame 
of  the  Pr^cieuses,  as  the  ladies  of  the  society 
were  called. 

Into  this  bedchamber  came  all  the  most 
noted  literary  personages  of  the  day  ;  —  Cor- 
neille,  Malherbe,  Bossuet,  F16chier,  La  Roche- 
foucault,  Balzac,  Bussy-Rabutin,  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  Mademoiselle  de  Scud^ri,  and  others 
of  less  note,  though  hardly  less  pretension. 


1 70  Drift -Wood 

They  paid  their  homage  to  the  Marchioness, 
under  the  title  of  Arthenice,  Eracinthe,  and 
Corinthe'e,  anagrams  of  the  name  of  Catherine. 
There,  as  in  the  Courts  of  Love  of  a  still  ear 
lier  age,  were  held  grave  dissertations,  on  friv 
olous  themes  :  and  all  the  metaphysics  of  love, 
and  the  subtilties  of  exaggerated  passion,  were 
discussed  with  most  puerile  conceits  and  a 
vapid  sentimentality.  "  We  saw,  not  long 
since,"  says  La  Bruyere,  "  a  circle  of  persons 
of  the  two  sexes,  united  by  conversation  and 
mental  sympathy.  They  left  to  the  vulgar 
the  art  of  speaking  intelligibly.  One  obscure 
expression  brought  on  another  still  more  ob 
scure,  which  in  turn  was  capped  by  something 
truly  enigmatical,  attended  with  vast  applause. 
With  all  this  so-called  delicacy,  feeling,  and 
refinement  of  expression,  they  at  length  went 
so  far  that  they  were  neither  understood  by 
others  nor  could  understand  themselves.  For 
these  conversations  one  needed  neither  good 
sense,  nor  memory,  nor  the  least  capacity  ; 
only  esprit,  and  that  not  of  the  best,  but  a 
counterfeit  kind,  made  up  chiefly  of  imagina 
tion." 

Looking  back  from  the  present  age,  how 
very  absurd  all  these  things  seem  to  us !    Nev- 


Paris  in  the  Seventeenth  Century      i/1 

ertheless,  the  minds  of  some  excellent  men 
were  seriously  inpressed  with  their  worth ; 
and  the  pulpit-orator,  Flechier,  in  his  funeral 
oration  upon  the  death  of  Madame  de  Mon- 
tausier,  exclaimed,  in  pious  enthusiasm  :  "  Re 
member,  my  brethren,  those  cabinets  which 
are  still  regarded  with  so  much  veneration, 
where  the  mind  was  purified,  where  virtue 
was  revered  under  the  name  of  the  incom 
parable  Arthenice,  where  were  gathered  to 
gether  so  many  personages  of  quality  and 
merit,  forming  a  select  court,  numerous  with 
out  confusion,  modest  without  constraint, 
learned  without  pride,  polished  without  affec 
tation." 


TABLE-TALK 


IF  you  borrow  my  books,  do  not  mark  them  ; 
for  I  shall  not  be  able  to  distinguish  your 
marks  from  my  own,  and  the  pages  will  be 
come,  like  the  doors  in  Bagdad,  marked  by 
Morgiana's  chalk. 

Don  Quixote  thought  he  could  have  made 
beautiful  bird-cages  and  toothpicks  if  his  brain 
had  not  been  so  full  of  ideas  of  chivalry. 
Most  people  would  succeed  in  small  things, 
if  they  were  not  troubled  with  great  ambitions. 

A  torn  jacket  is  soon  mended  ;  but  hard 
words  bruise  the  heart  of  a  child. 

Authors,  in  their  Prefaces,  generally  speak 
in  a  conciliatory,  deprecating  tone  of  the  crit 
ics,  whom  they  hate  and  fear  ;  as  of  old  the 
Greeks  spake  of  the  Furies  as  the  Eumenides, 
the  benign  Goddesses. 


Table -Talk  J73 

Doubtless  criticism  was  originally  benig 
nant,  pointing  out  the  beauties  of  a  work, 
rather  than  its  defects.  The  passions  of  men 
have  made  it  malignant,  as  the  bad  heart  of 
Procrustes  turned  the  bed,  the  symbol  of  re 
pose,  into  an  instrument  of  torture. 

Popularity  is  only,  in  legal  phrase,  the  "  in 
stantaneous  seisin  "  of  fame. 

The  Mormons  make  the  marriage  ring,  like 
the  ring  of  Saturn,  fluid,  not  solid,  and  keep 
it  in  its  place  by  numerous  satellites. 

In  the  mouths  of  many  men  soft  words  are 
like  roses  that  soldiers  put  into  the  muzzles  of 
their  muskets  on  holidays. 

We  often  excuse  our  own  want  of  philan 
thropy  by  giving  the  name  of  fanaticism  to 
the  more  ardent  zeal  of  others. 

Every  great  poem  is  in  itself  limited  by 
necessity,  —  but  in  its  suggestions  unlimited 
and  infinite. 

If  we  could  read  the  secret  history  of  our 
enemies,  we  should  find  in  each  man's  life 


174  Drift-Wood 

sorrow   and   suffering   enough   to   disarm   all 
hostility. 

As  turning  the  logs  will  make  a  dull  fire 
burn,  so  change  of  studies  a  dull  brain. 

The  Laws  of  Nature  are  just,  but  terrible. 
There  is  no  weak  mercy  in  them.  Cause  and 
consequence  are  inseparable  and  inevitable. 
The  elements  have  no  forbearance.  The  fire 
burns,  the  water  drowns,  the  air  consumes, 
the  earth  buries.  And  perhaps  it  would  be 
well  for  our  race  if  the  punishment  of  crimes 
against  the  Laws  of  Man  were  as  inevitable 
as  the  punishment  of  crimes  against  the  Laws 
of  Nature,  —  were  Man  as  unerring  in  his 
judgments  as  Nature. 

Round  about  what  is,  lies  a  whole  mysteri 
ous  world  of  what  might  be,  —  a  psychological 
romance  of  possibilities  and  things  that  do  not 
happen.  By  going  out  a  few  minutes  sooner 
or  later,  by  stopping  to  speak  with  a  friend  at 
a  corner,  by  meeting  this  man  or  that,  or  by 
turning  down  this  street  instead  of  the  other, 
we  may  let  slip  some  great  occasion  of  good, 
or  avoid  some  impending  evil,  by  which  the 


Table-Talk  175 

whole  current  of  our  lives  would  have  been 
changed.  There  is  no  possible  solution  to 
the  dark  enigma  but  the  one  word,  "  Provi 
dence." 

The  Helicon  of  too  many  poets  is  not  a  hill 
crowned  with  sunshine  and  visited  by  the 
Muses  and  the  Graces,  but  an  old,  mouldering 
house,  full  of  gloom  and  haunted  by  ghosts.  / 

"  Let  us  build  such  a  church,  that  those 
who  come  after  us  shall  take  us  for  madmen," 
said  the  old  canon  of  Seville,  when  the  great 
cathedral  was  planned.  Perhaps  through  every 
mind  passes  some  such  thought,  when  it  first 
entertains  the  design  of  a  great  and  seemingly 
impossible  action,  the  end  of  which  it  dimly 
foresees.  This  divine  madness  enters  more 
or  less  into  all  our  noblest  undertakings. 

I  feel  a  kind  of  reverence  for  the  first  books 
of  young  authors.  There  is  so  much  aspira 
tion  in  them,  so  much  audacious  hope  and 
trembling  fear,  so  much  of  the  heart's  history, 
that  all  errors  and  short-comings  are  for  a 
while  lost  sight  of  in  the  amiable  self-assertion 
of  youth. 


Drift- Wood 

Authors  have  a  greater  right  than  any  copy 
right,  though  it  is  generally  unacknowledged 
or  disregarded.  They  have  a  right  to  the 
reader's  civility.  There  are  favorable  hours 
for  reading  a  book,  as  for  writing  it,  and  to 
these  the  author  has  a  claim.  Yet  many  peo 
ple  think,  that  when  they  buy  a  book,  they 
buy  with  it  the  right  to  abuse  the  author. 

A  thought  often  makes  us  hotter  than  a 
fire. 

Black  seals  upon  letters,  like  the  black  sails 
of  the  Greeks,  are  signs  of  bad  tidings  and  ill 
success. 

Love  makes  its  record  in  deeper  colors  as 
we  grow  out  of  childhood  into  manhood  ;  as 
the  Emperors  signed  their  names  in  green  ink 
when  under  age,  but  when  of  age,  in  purple. 

x  Some  critics  are  like  chimney-sweepers  ; 
they  put  out  the  fire  below,  or  frighten  the 
swallows  from  their  nests  above  ;  they  scrape 
a  long  time  in  the  chimney,  cover  themselves 
with  soot,  and  bring  nothing  away  but  a  bag 
of  cinders,  and  then  sing  from  the  top  of  the 

\    house  as  if  they  had  built  it. 


Table-Talk  177 

When  we  reflect  that  all  the  aspects  of 
Nature,  all  the  emotions  of  the  soul,  and  all 
the  events  of  life,  have  been  the  subjects  of 
poetry  for  hundreds  and  thousands  of  years, 
we  can  hardly  wonder  that  there  should  be  so 
many  resemblances  and  coincidences  of  ex 
pression  among  poets,  but  rather  that  they 
are  not  more  numerous  and  more  striking. 

The   first   pressure  of  sorrow  crushes  out  v 
from  our  hearts  the  best  wine  ;  afterwards  the 
constant  weight  of  it  brings  forth  bitterness,  — 
the  taste  and  stain  from  the  lees  of  the  vat. 

The  tragic  element  in  poetry  is  like  Saturn 
in  alchemy,  —  the  Malevolent,  the  Destroyer 
of  Nature  ;  but  without  it  no  true  Aurum 
Potabile,  or  Elixir  of  Life,  can  be  made. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REG  ONAL  L  BRARY  FACIL  TY 


